


Darling, you have just begun

by DancingLassie



Series: Rivers Run [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Genius loci (Rivers of London), Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, It's Jaskier's turn to meet the family, Jaskier is a river god, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Family, Protective River Gods, Protective Witchers, genii locorum, inspired by Rivers of London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingLassie/pseuds/DancingLassie
Summary: Geralt would be lying if he said he wasn't the slightest bit anxious about what his brothers will think of his River god and his Child Surprise, the fugitive Lion Cub of Cintra.  He may have completely failed to mention Princess Cirilla to any of his fellow witchers before now, but they'll probably find that easier to accept than the River god thing.A sequel toKingdoms Come and Kingdoms Go, Rivers Run and Rivers Flow.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eyck of Denesle & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Rivers Run [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723825
Comments: 1605
Kudos: 2713
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The promised Kaer Morhen fic! It's Jaskier's turn to meet the family.
> 
> This is set directly after [Kingdoms Come and Kingdoms Go, Rivers Run and Rivers Flow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956247/chapters/54874804). If you haven't read that, then I'm not sure how much sense this story will make, but the basic premise is that Jaskier is the god of the Pankratz river. He's got a lot of siblings who are gods of other rivers that feed into the Yaruga. They've all met Geralt and had a go at him for hurting Jaskier, but now Geralt is taking Jaskier and Ciri to meet his family in Kaer Morhen.
> 
> A huge thank you to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com) for beta-reading this chapter!

The players have built Jaskier a throne.

It’s their final night with the acting troupe (The Squabbling Ducks). Tomorrow they’ll arrive at Ard Carraigh and split off, heading further north, up into the mountains. Towards Kaer Morhen. Towards home. 

Geralt is more than ready to be surrounded by the safe, familiar walls of the keep. Though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit anxious about what his brothers will think of his River god and their Child Surprise. When he had thought Jaskier was human, it was Vesemir’s opinion that he feared most of all. But one of Vesemir’s greatest joys is adding new knowledge to the vast collection of witcher lore housed at Kaer Morhen.

Ever since his old mentor had worked out the name of Geralt’s Orisa, he’s been not so subtly hinting that Geralt should bring Jaskier to with him one winter. Vesemir will be positively  _ ecstatic  _ to have Jaskier as his guest. The bard will be lucky if the old witcher doesn’t just lock himself and Jaskier in a room together until he’s extracted all the knowledge in Jaskier’s head. 

His foster brothers are another issue entirely. He’s fairly certain they don’t know anything about River gods, and if Jaskier doesn’t out himself, then Vesemir certainly will. He doesn’t think his brothers will automatically think Jaskier is a monster, just because he’s not human. But all witchers develop an inbuilt wariness of the ‘other’ on the Path. They won’t simply welcome Jaskier into their home with open arms; Geralt doesn’t know how Jaskier, who expects to be welcomed and fussed over wherever he goes, will cope with that.

There is also the teeny, tiny, insignificant detail of Ciri, and how he has completely failed to inform any of his fellow witchers how he acquired a Child Surprise almost thirteen years ago. Though they’ll probably find that easier to accept than the River god thing.

Those are issues that will have to be dealt with at some point, but not tonight. Not when the Ducks have decided a party is in order so they can send their new companions off north with cheer in their hearts and beer in their bellies. 

Not Ciri’s though. Geralt’s keeping an eye on her and has already foiled three of her attempts to steal someone’s mug. She pouts insolently up at him and tries to wheedle that Jaskier would let her have a small one. Geralt replies that it is unfortunate for her that he isn’t Jaskier. The bard is too busy, going round the actors and stagehands to thank them personally for all their help, to authorise any illicit alcohol consumption.

How this has developed into the actors setting up the big chair they use for a throne in their shows and pushing Jaskier down onto it, Geralt does not know. But it doesn’t seem to be harming anyone and Jaskier is sitting there with a healthy flush on his cheeks that has been missing over the past few weeks. The stress of their travels and protecting Ciri has worn him down. Geralt doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that they’ve been almost within running distance of a river for most of their journey.

He strongly suspects Jaskier has been ready to bolt into the water with Ciri at the first sign of trouble. Geralt can’t say he blames him. He’s had one hand ready to pull out his sword ever since they left Lettenhove. Luckily, Ciri has mostly remained oblivious to the anxiety of her two guardians, completely entranced with the mechanics involved in transporting a performing troupe from town to town. The actors all call her their lucky charm, and it’s become a tradition for them to wrap an arm around Ciri for a quick hug before going on stage.

If possible, Geralt thinks the princess would be content to forget all about her royal past and spend her life performing and travelling with a group such as this. She already knows most of the lines of the company’s current show, ‘A Midwinter’s Daydream’.

Confiscating yet another mug of ale from Ciri, he leaves her in the care of Melissa, who plays the Queen of the Gnomes, and makes his way over to Jaskier.

The bard beams up at him from his chair. He’s not drunk; Geralt would smell it on him if he were, but there’s a giddiness in his eyes that makes him appear so.

“My Wolf!” he cries and grabs Geralt around the neck, hauling him down to bestow kisses on his face. The witcher can’t help but bask in the easy affection he’s now allowed to enjoy. He doesn’t resist the urge to press his own kiss to Jaskier’s willing lips before straightening again. Around the throne, the actors dance, laugh and sing. From here Geralt can feel a seductive undercurrent of raw power flowing from them towards Jaskier. It makes his medallion tremble against his skin and Jaskier slump almost bonelessly in his chair.

“How much of this is your doing?” he murmurs to Jaskier.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jaskier stiffen slightly in his seat. Geralt had once accused him of carelessly manipulating everyone around him, and it seems that the accusation has remained with Jaskier. Geralt reaches out a hand to squeeze his River god’s shoulder, hoping Jaskier will accept that he’s just asking, not judging. Jaskier relaxes somewhat.

“The party was all their idea; I just loosened up too much after the first drink. I accidentally let the human mask slip a bit and the godliness peek through,” the River god admits. “I didn’t realise how draining this journey had been.”

“So, they get drunk and celebrate around you, and you just… feed off the energy they let out?” Geralt is genuinely curious. Now that he’s got over his irrational fear of Jaskier manipulating him, he finds he wants to know more about what makes the River gods tick.

Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “I guess so. Celebration is just a form of worship. It helps that they all have a genuine affection for me. I don’t think this would have happened if they hadn’t.”

It might be the influence of the revelers around him, but an unusual playfulness comes over Geralt.

“Are there any other forms of worship you’d enjoy?”

He can hear Jaskier’s breath hitch and his heart speed up. The red flush on his cheeks begins to travel, creeping slowly down his neck and disappearing under the hair at the top of his chest. They’ve been taking things slow. Rebuilding the trust that was shattered between them. 

Also, Geralt feels that with the amount of build-up it took to get this relationship off the ground, the first time they fuck should be more than a quick, quiet fumble in the dark, surrounded on all sides by performers and Ciri. But everyone seems very preoccupied at the moment and there are enough rugs and furs in the props cart to create a semi-private, comfortable nest.

Jaskier chews his lip thoughtfully, eyes on Ciri.

“Quite a few, but perhaps we could explore them better at Kaer Morhen,” he says with obvious regret. 

Geralt is disappointed, but he understands. He can’t begrudge the princess for being Jaskier’s first priority. Especially not now he’s got to know the girl. He realises now that he’d willingly throw himself in front of a sword to protect her.

It’s the way she sings, slightly off-key, along with Jaskier. How she enthusiastically throws herself into caring for Roach and the other horses. Roach is her favourite, which shows she has good taste, and the mare allows Ciri to brush her mane until it’s silky smooth and gleaming. She’s realised she knows little of how the common world works, and with a determined look in her eye, has set out to rectify her ignorance. It’s also the way she curls into Jaskier’s chest when she sleeps between them at night, Buttercup the horse clutched tightly in one hand. Geralt will wake in the night to the sight of Buttercup smooshed against Jaskier’s face as Ciri’s limbs move in her sleep. The bard seems to have learnt how to sleep through it.

That’s not to say she doesn’t have her moments. She had taken great exception to Geralt’s obsessive lurking during their first week on the road. Geralt had been feeling uneasy, too close still to Nilfgaard, and hadn’t wanted to let Ciri out of his sight. She’d snapped quiet admonishments at him, and he had growled back reminders of the threats she currently faced. Jaskier had smoothed things over. Ciri was not to be alone, but as long as she obeyed this rule, she could choose her escort. Having made friends with everyone in the troupe, Ciri was happy to agree to this stipulation.

Geralt had tried to compliment Jaskier on his handling of the situation, but Jaskier had just looked at him warily. 

“I’ve had to learn a few tricks since she came to live with me.”

Geralt decides to perch on the armrest of the throne and draws one of Jaskier’s hands between his own. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the simple joy of holding Jaskier’s hand. He likes to run his fingers along Jaskier’s slender ones and trace the lines on his palms. He enjoys pressing kisses all over his bard’s hands, cataloguing the different skin texture (the back is soft as silk, but the calluses on Jaskier’s palms catch enticingly on Geralt’s lips). Jaskier is turning him into a complete sap. 

He doesn’t care.

In the back of his mind there is a long forgotten song playing. It’s old, and he can’t remember most of the words, but he’s found himself almost humming it recently. He thinks his mother used to sing it to him.

_ ‘Down by the river, among the rushes and reeds, _

_ Sings a Kingfisher, with a song just for me. _

_ With his handsome blue coat and his bright orange vest, _

_ He promises sunshine, good cheer and long rest.’ _

* * *

Jaskier had known, logically, that a hidden witcher fortress was likely to be hard to find. Experiencing this is another thing entirely. If it weren’t for Ciri, he’d have headed straight into the Gwenllech and told Geralt he’d meet him where the keep was nearest the river. Unfortunately, Ciri lacks the ability to become as one with the rushing water and can’t travel this way. Jaskier has wondered, while huffing up yet another steep incline, whether this is something she could learn, or if it is a mode of transport unique to River gods. 

Geralt has proven himself to be remarkably patient with his travel companions, but Jaskier can see how alarmed he is by their slow pace. Winter is really beginning to set in, and it’s bitterly cold. They now sleep with Jaskier wrapped around Ciri and Geralt behind him, enveloping them both. Even with the fire and all the blankets and cloaks piled on top of them, it takes a while for Ciri to stop shivering enough to fall asleep. The sooner they can get her to the shelter of Kaer Morhen the better.

Ciri stops to catch her breath by a giant boulder. She takes one look at the jagged, broken path ahead and bursts into tears.

“Hey, hey,” Jaskier puts on a burst of speed so he can catch up, wrapping her securely in his arms. “It’s alright, not long now.” He doesn’t know if this is true, but he can’t think of any other comforting thing to say. 

“I can’t,” she gasps. “I can’t Papa.” His heart leaps at the name. Ciri has called him such in the past, when they were in Lettenhove, but that was always when they were out in public and trying to avoid suspicion. This is different; there’s no one else around to fool. There’s just an emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted young girl who should not have to traverse this impossible path in fear for her life.

He can feel elated some other time. 

“Just take a moment Ciri. Catch your breath. You’ll feel better once you’ve caught your breath and had some water.” He brushes the tears from her cheeks, worried about them freezing on her skin.

He looks up ahead to try and get Geralt’s attention. The witcher has been leading Roach, the poor horse laden down with all their supplies, including the waterskins.

Geralt has already started making his way carefully back to them, waterskin in hand. Roach stands still, further up the path. Geralt rubs Ciri’s back sympathetically as she shakily gulps down some water, tears still running down her cheeks. 

He passes the waterskin to Jaskier once Ciri hands it back to him. “Come on,” he kneels before her. “Hop on for a little bit. Jaskier, you’ll have to lead Roach.”

Ciri doesn’t protest that she can manage, which shows just how exhausted she is. She clambers awkwardly onto Geralt’s back and wraps her arms securely around him, burying her face in the top of his shoulder. Geralt takes a moment to make sure he has a good grip on her legs and then hauls himself up, Ciri stuck like a limpet to his back.

The sight does something warm to Jaskier’s heart. He presses kisses to Ciri’s head and Geralt’s cheek as he passes them, stumbling ahead to grasp hold of Roach.

Geralt doesn’t put Ciri down for the rest of the day. He and Jaskier exchange looks as the sun begins to descend, and silently agree to keep going as long as they can.

It’s as the pink in the sky begins to fade away completely to a soft indigo that they round a corner and finally catch sight of Kaer Morhen. The keep is just a dark intimidating shape in the approaching darkness, but Jaskier can make out some towers rising high above the rest.

He nudges Ciri’s knee with an elbow. “Look,” he encourages. “We’re almost there.”

She barely raises her head for a glance, eyes heavy with exhaustion and still slightly wet. She tucks her head back into the crook of Geralt’s neck and lets out a shuddering breath. Geralt squeezes her legs in reassurance and starts walking again.

It still takes them well over an hour to get to the heavy portcullis that marks the entrance to the keep. All natural light is completely gone, heavy clouds blocking out the starlight, and Jaskier has to hold up a torch to light the last couple of rocky miles to their destination.

The portcullis is raised and the heavy wooden doors behind it are propped open. It seems they’ve been expected, because a side door just inside the archway opens and a tall, broad shouldered man steps through.

“Greetings Wolf,” the man welcomes Geralt formally. Geralt nods back.

“Greetings Eskel.”

So, this is Eskel. Geralt’s favourite ‘brother’. Jaskier strains to make out more of him in the torchlight and tries not to recoil when he catches a glimpse of the truly horrifying scars that mar almost half the witcher’s face. Eskel looks lucky to still have two working eyes.

“Who have you brought?” Eskel asks, casting a curious look at Jaskier and Ciri.

Jaskier gives a bow with fewer flourishes than is usual for him when at a noble’s court, but much more genuine.

“I am Jaskier, bard and long-suffering companion.”

Eskel’s lips twitch upwards slightly in a smile, distorting the scarred side of his face even more. “I think I’ve heard Geralt mention you occasionally… Or a lot, is probably more accurate.”

Geralt lets out a displeased grunt but does not deny the accusation. “This is Ciri.” He hikes the slipping girl more firmly onto his back. “She’s… ours.” He looks so defiant and so vulnerable as he states this, that Jaskier just wants to wrap him up in soft furs and feed him cakes by a warm fire. Mama knows just how much he loves his witcher.

The slight hitch in Eskel’s eyebrow is the only sign he gives that he is surprised.

Ciri pokes her head up at the sound of her name and lets out a small squeak of surprise at the sight of the second witcher, but bravely keeps her head up and tries for a timid smile. 

“Come on,” Eskel ushers them further inside the keep, pulling a lever to lower the portcullis behind them. Jaskier’s tight shoulders sink a fraction at this. They are  _ finally  _ somewhere safe. There is no way Nilfgaard can easily find them here, even with a mage. “I’ll see to Roach; you go and introduce your companions to the others.”

“Who else is here this year?” Geralt enquires as Jaskier hands Roach’s reins to Eskel. 

“Vesemir, of course, and Lambert as well. He’s brought Coën with him, from the Griffin School.”

These seem to be familiar names to Geralt because he just nods and leads the way through the outer courtyard and towards the main building. Ciri is fighting a losing battle with consciousness and slumps further against him, eyes fluttering shut. Jaskier hovers next to them, ready to grab her if she starts to slip.

The keep is draughty, even when they get inside, but Geralt navigates confidently through a maze of corridors and into what must be the dining room. Jaskier almost lets out a completely indecent moan as a blast of heat hits him when they step through the door. It’s been  _ hours  _ since he last felt the tips of his fingers.

Three burly men stand up from where they’d been sitting around a game of cards. The oldest one, with thick grey hair and moustache, must be Vesemir.

“You made it at last.” Vesemir comes striding over to clap Geralt on the shoulder, stopping himself when he catches sight of Ciri’s sleeping form. 

“Vesemir,” Geralt greets him tiredly, then nods to the other two men in turn. “Lambert. Coën. It’s good to see you again. I’ve brought guests this year. This is Jaskier.” It may be the bard’s imagination, but he thinks he sees a hastily suppressed look of glee in Vesemir’s eyes. “And this is Princess Cirilla of Cintra. My Child Surprise.” All three men stare in complete bafflement at the sleeping girl. It would be comical if there weren’t a protective worry worming its way around inside Jaskier’s chest. He wants to step in front of Geralt and hide Ciri from their curious gazes.

“I think that will have to be a story for tomorrow,” Vesemir announces carefully, taking in the fatigue on Jaskier and Geralt’s faces. “We’ve readied your room Geralt, but we didn’t know you were bringing guests. We can sort out rooms for them tomorrow as well. They’ll have to sleep in yours tonight.”

“We just need a room for Ciri,” Geralt tells him, strong jaw raised in defiance.

Vesemir just snorts. “Took you long enough, boy. Get off with you. The bard looks ready to collapse right here.”

It’s not an inaccurate assessment and Jaskier gives them all a nod before following Geralt back out into the draughty corridor, not paying the slightest attention to the route they’re taking. He can figure out geography tomorrow when his brain is functioning again. All he currently cares about is the large bed that is revealed when Geralt pushes open the door to his room. Some kindly soul has lit a fire and the room is deliciously warm. 

They work together to quickly and silently unwrap Ciri from her cloak and remove her boots and the three extra layers they had bundled her into that morning. They slip her gently under the covers before divesting themselves of their own outer layers and boots. 

Jaskier slides in next to Ciri and Geralt instantly plasters himself to the bard’s side, breathing in a lungful of Jaskier and sinking down next to him, warm and content.

Jaskier’s eyes are already sliding shut, and he can feel the irresistible call of sleep carrying him away.

“We made it,” he murmurs, barely staying conscious long enough to hear Geralt’s quiet reply.

“Of course, we did, little Kingfisher.”

Huh. That one’s new. Jaskier makes a mental note to tease Geralt about it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find any good songs about kingfishers so I wrote my own little verse. If you know any good ones then please let me know!
> 
> The current plan is to update once a week on Fridays, but work have just called me back in so apologies if this causes any delays.
> 
> If you fancy saying hello then you can find me on [tumblr.](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier goes and pays his respects to his cousin, while Geralt faces an interrogation from his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slightly late chapter. Very sadly there was a family bereavement earlier this week and everything just got shoved on the back burner until I could sort myself out. Also began work again and spent most of the week shouting at the computer network for constantly disconnecting. All in all, a completely shit week and working on this story and hearing everyone's enthusiastic response for the first chapter have been some of the only bright sparks that have kept me going. So thank you to all of you.
> 
> Thank you to my amazing and lovely beta reader [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/).

Jaskier is surprised to be the first to wake. Geralt, the ridiculous mutant, seems to be able to survive on very little sleep and is usually the one to shake the bard awake in the mornings. But, Jaskier reasons, Geralt’s been under a lot of stress recently and deserves a lie in. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

He wishes he could just curl up in this ridiculously comfy bed, safely ensconced with his daughter and his witcher, but there is an uncomfortable nagging sensation in the back of his mind. It refuses to let up, to wait until a more reasonable hour.

Very carefully, he extracts himself from the warmth, pressing soft kisses to the tousled, sleeping heads. Quickly slipping on some warm clothes, he ventures out into the hallway. It takes him a good twenty minutes to make it back to the dining room. The keep is a veritable maze!

“Where’s Geralt?” a gruff voice speaks up behind him, causing him to jump and spin round. It is the scarred witcher from the entrance the night before. Eskel. Jaskier smiles his best winning smile at the witcher, but Eskel doesn’t seem taken in by it.

“Still sleeping. Just thought I’d go for an early morning stroll. My sister is convinced they’re good for you.”

“It’s dangerous to wander outside the keep. There are monsters in these mountains, and they get desperate in winter. They stray much closer to the walls than they’d normally dare.”

“Thank you for the warning. I’ll be careful,” Jaskier promises. Eskel does not look convinced, but another voice cuts across the room before he can try and dissuade the bard.

“Ahh, Jaskier. I’m glad you’re up.” It’s the oldest witcher, Geralt’s mentor, Vesemir. Geralt only has good things to say about him, but Jaskier’s treacherous brain keeps reminding him that this is the man who’d trained hundreds of young boys for the Trials. One quiet night around their campfire, Geralt had admitted to him that usually only three in ten of the boys made it out of the Trials alive.

He’d once shared the horrific statistics with Ina, trying to understand how Geralt could  _ love _ this man.

“You said he was a swords master. If he hadn’t taught them properly, then far fewer than thirty percent would have made it. It may sound horrific to you, but from your witcher’s point of view, Vesemir is the man who taught him enough to give him a chance of survival.”

This is why he needs to stop sharing things with Ina. She always tries to inject sense and reason into a conversation. It’s no fun being dramatic with someone who insists on pointing out the logic of a situation. He should have gone to Etta.

He pushes down his misgivings and gives Vesemir another of his smiles. He’s going to be spending all winter here; best to try and keep things friendly. 

“The bard wants to go for a walk,” Eskel interjects disbelievingly. 

“What a splendid idea,” Vesemir shocks them with his easy agreement. “I’ll go with you.”

“You said we needed to start repairing the east wall today,” Eskel reminds him, crossing his arms suspiciously and frowning at  _ Jaskier _ . Why is he being given such a look? “You said it would take us all day and you wanted an early start.”

“Hmm…” Vesemir seems reluctant to go about his original plan. His eyes are fixed almost greedily on Jaskier. It’s rather unsettling. 

“Well, in that case, I’m sure I can manage without an escort. If I could just grab a piece of bread or something for breakfast, then that would be much appreciated.” The nagging feeling in his head is getting stronger and he knows it won’t leave him alone until he’s fulfilled his obligation.

He ducks round both witchers, snatches a bread roll from the basket on the table and waves cheerfully as he sets off. His first obstacle is the portcullis. He has no idea how to raise it. He pokes at it ineffectually until a dark haired witcher spots him and comes over.

“It’s built to stop people from coming and going, y’know,” he drawls, arms crossed over his chest in an unimpressed manner. “It’s kind of the point of the whole thing.”

“Ahh,” Jaskier remarks, regarding the witcher warily. Apart from Vesemir, he’s sensing a bit of hostility coming from these new witchers and he’s not really sure what he’s done to deserve it. Apart from crazy mages, most people think he’s an absolute  _ delight  _ on first introduction. “I was hoping to walk down by the river.” 

At a pinch, he could dive into the well within the keep and follow the groundwater until he is able to emerge in the stream, but that would take a huge amount of effort. He’s only ever done it once before, and that time he’d had Mama to guide him. He’d been violently sick when he’d regained corporeal form. Working his way slowly through cracks in the rock beneath the earth’s surface is complicated and exhausting! There’s a very good chance he might put himself back together wrong when he emerged, or become lost forever in the cracks.

“Best follow me then.” The witcher strides off and Jaskier has to run to catch up.

“Sorry,” he huffs. “I don’t think we were properly introduced last night. I’m Jaskier.”

“Lambert.”

Geralt has previously described Lambert as his much ‘pricklier’ brother. Nevertheless, Jaskier manages to put on a genuine grin. “Pleased to meet you.”

No acknowledgement. He’s in a place where his usual godly charms have absolutely no effect. Neither, it appears, do his personal ones. When he had first met Geralt, this had been exhilarating. Now, surrounded and outnumbered, he’s starting to feel a creeping sense of anxiety. He forces himself to wrestle down the urge to let a bit more power seep through. To try and encourage the witcher to accept his friendship. He doesn’t think Lambert would take it well. 

He doesn’t like this. Only one other person has ever succeeded in making him feel such unease, and she still haunts his nightmares.

Lambert leads him to an outer wall with a rather large hole in it. This must be the wall Vesemir is planning to repair. Lambert gestures Jaskier through, but does not cross himself.

“Are you really a River god?” he asks. He’s looking Jaskier up and down, and he seems distinctly underwhelmed. At this moment, Jaskier isn’t surprised. He feels wrong-footed and out of his depth. He wishes Geralt was here. 

“Yes,” he manages with as much confidence as he can muster.

“Huh,” Lambert continues to eye him like he’s a mutated kind of drowner. “Thought you’d be more fucking impressive.”

_ Rude! _

Lambert stalks off before Jaskier can come up with a retort. It’s ever so tempting to collect the freezing water from the puddles on the ground and pelt it at Lambert’s head, but he grinds his teeth mulishly together and resists. No hurting Geralt’s brothers; that would be bad.

The ‘path’ down to the river is steep, overgrown and deceptively slippery. Jaskier is not looking forward to having to climb back up. But he does make it to the river unharmed and without being attacked by any monsters.

He’s just begun to toe off his boots, teeth already chattering at the thought of exposing more skin to the frigid air, when he hears a suspicious rustle behind him. It sounds very much like a heavy boot stepping on a twig. One of the witchers has followed him.

He glances around, but he knows there isn’t much hope of spotting a witcher if he’s determined not to be seen. He had once jokingly convinced Geralt to play hide and seek with him and had spent a frustrating couple of hours combing the woods in circles before being forced to concede defeat. The witcher had then calmly emerged from behind a tree only six feet from where Jaskier had been sitting. Geralt had mocked him about it for months!

Well, he grimaces, Lambert knows what he is, so it’s almost certain the others do too. He hopes they appreciate the show. He strips off the rest of his clothes, shivering uncontrollably, and dives into the Gwenllech. 

It’s such a relief to be submerged in the water. The limb numbing cold dissipates as his body automatically adapts to the river.

_ ‘I’m here,’ _ he calls out with his mind. The nagging sensation that has been bothering him dims, and in its place he feels directions filtering gently into his brain. He sets off upstream, powering through the water at a pace no witcher has a hope of matching. Whoever has followed him had better not try to steal his clothes in revenge.

* * *

The dawn light peeking tentatively in through the window is Geralt’s first clue that he’s overslept. The second is Ciri’s nervous shaking of his arm.

“Jaskier’s gone,” she informs him anxiously. She’s sitting up in bed, hair tousled and eyes wide. Her blonde roots contrast strikingly with the rest of her brown hair. He and Jaskier haven’t kept up the hair dye since they parted from ‘The Squabbling Ducks’ but they’ll need to sort out something soon, or Ciri’s going to look very strange.

Sure enough, there is an empty space between them where Jaskier should be and Geralt feels a stab of panic. Of all the times for  _ Jaskier _ to be the first to wake! Geralt had been relying on being the first one up, as usual. He’d been hoping to snatch a few quiet moments with his brothers and Vesemir to explain some things. Well, nothing for it. He’ll need to go and see what mischief his River god has managed to get up to without his supervision.

Ciri’s stomach growls loudly and his own rumbles back in response. They exchange sheepish smiles and he quickly tugs on his boots and a warmer outer layer before leaving the room to let her dress properly. He waits for her patiently outside the door and when she emerges, she grabs his arm, huddling close to him. It leaves a ridiculously warm feeling in his heart that she now trusts him enough to look to him for comfort.

Lambert, Eskel and Coën are in the dining hall, spooning porridge into bowls.

“Fucking finally!” Lambert crows when he spots them. “Though you were going to sleep all day, you lazy bastard.”

Geralt bares his teeth at him, but without any attempt to intimidate. This is just how Lambert interacts with anyone he vaguely likes. Coën kicks Geralt’s brother under the table, eyes fixed on a nervous Ciri.

“There’s a girl present, you swine.”

Of all the witchers Lambert could have invited to overwinter at Kaer Morhen, Geralt’s glad it’s Coën. He’s come across the bearded witcher on the Path several times before, and they’ve even completed the odd job together. He’s a very decent sort and Geralt’s seen his soft spot for children in person. Of all the witchers here, he’s the one most likely to put Ciri at ease.

“You must both be starving,” Eskel intervenes before Lambert can retaliate. “Have some breakfast.”

Ciri obediently shuffles forward with Geralt, but seats herself on the side of him that puts him between her and the other witchers. He can’t help but approve. It’s good that she’s wary of strangers.

“So, Vesemir says you’re fucking a god.”

Both Eskel and Coën kick Lambert this time, as Ciri chokes on her first mouthful of porridge. Geralt glares at him. He knows he’s due an interrogation for dropping in here with two unannounced guests, but he’d foolishly thought even Lambert would have enough tact to wait until they could be alone.

“It’s Cirilla, right?” Coën smiles his least threatening smile. It might be the smallpox scars that he tries to cover with a bushy black beard, but Coën has always managed to put ordinary humans more at ease than Geralt and his brothers. Geralt suspects that the ugly proof of having suffered through such a human illness endears Coën more to them. It’s like he’s a member of some sort of club.

“Ciri,” she mumbles, but tries for a polite smile. Geralt keeps one thigh pressed against her own in a gesture of silent support.

“It’s really lovely to have you here Ciri. Do you like books?”

She nods.

“Well, how about I show you the library after breakfast? It’s got some books you won’t find anywhere else on the Continent!”

She darts a glance at Geralt, who nods encouragingly, and accepts Coën’s offer.

Geralt has the next ten minutes to prepare himself before Ciri finishes her porridge and is ushered out of the room by the Griffin witcher. Barely a second after the door closes, his two brothers round on him.

“What the fuck have you been up to?”

Why do they let Lambert speak?

* * *

She’s perched by the river at an entrance to a cave, wrapped in cosy looking white furs. Jaskier elects to stay in the water where it can keep him warm, having no such protection from the cold himself. 

He’s never actually met his cousin before. Mama’s brother, Uncle Buina, was a fairly frequent visitor in Jaskier’s youth, but he never brought any of his children with him. Gwenllech is a solemn looking, albino woman with the palest blue eyes Jaskier has ever seen. Well, that’s not entirely correct; his uncle has matching ones, but beside Gwen’s white hair and skin, they seem even paler.

“Jaskier, it’s nice to meet you at last,” she gives him a small smile. “Not many of our kind venture here apart from my father and siblings. It’s lovely to know you’ll be spending the winter nearby. Perhaps we could swim together sometimes?”

He dips his head deferentially. “Thank you for letting me spend time on your territory. It’s wonderful to finally meet you too!” 

She hums a reply and lapses into silence. Jaskier fidgets. He’s not good with silence. He has a bad habit of filling it.

“So, do you often spend your winter here? Or do you head downstream? Your river meets the Buina at Yspaden, right?”

“I prefer it up here. The city is so busy in the winter and I don’t really like crowds. Plus, the witchers return here for winter, and I like to see which ones are left. There used to be so many more of them. It’s sad that there are so few left.”

It is. It really is. Jaskier doesn’t like thinking about just how many friends Geralt lost when Kaer Morhen was sacked by a bloodthirsty mob. No wonder his brothers are so suspicious of unexpected visitors.

“Do you ever talk to them?”

“I used to,” she admits, slowly discarding her clothing and joining him in the water. “But I got too attached to the young ones, and so few made it through the Trials. It was easier to keep my distance. Occasionally, someone would catch my eye, but not for a good few years.”

“It sounds lonely.” Jaskier cannot imagine living such a life. He loves being able to bound across the Continent in search of new places and adventure. Even when compelled by Mama to stay by his own river, he’d taken advantage of Lettenhove’s busy streets and many entertainments. Gwen seems more like his sister Vda, content to stick close to her own river and live a quiet life.

“I moved around a lot as a human. My family were nomads, but when I became Gwenllech, I finally had a place to settle. I loved my family, but it was something I’d always yearned for. When I want company, I go down to Yspaden, and when I tire of the noise there, I come back here. The contrast makes the quiet of the mountains all the more beautiful.”

The view  _ is _ stunning. The rocky tree and snow-covered peaks tower above them, sweeping up to touch the clear blue sky. From here, Jaskier can just make out Kaer Morhen, built into the side of a tall, jagged mountain.

“Father says you’re a wild one. I think he enjoys hearing how much trouble you cause Aunty Yaruga.”

Jaskier shoots her an affronted look. “I do not cause that much trouble!”

“Your brother visited me about eight years ago to warn me to watch out for a violet eyed sorceress. He gave strict instructions on how she should be treated if she dared to try and step into my river.”

She eyes the scar on his shoulder, and it gives off a sharp stab of phantom pain. She smiles apologetically at his grimace. “I’m sorry, that was a bad example. It was poorly done.”

He shrugs and tries to reassure her by his expression that he hasn’t taken offence. He would really rather talk about anything else. 

“Did you ever hear about the elves I met in Posada?”

She graciously allows him to distract her from the topic of Yennefer.

“No, I don’t think I have.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat then.” He settles himself more comfortably against the bank and spins out the slightly embellished tale of his and Geralt’s first meeting. It is quite nice, he decides, to know that he has one of his own family up here while he’s visiting Geralt’s. Puts him on a more even footing.

* * *

“Where’s Vesemir?” Geralt tries to delay the interrogation. He’d much rather have to do this only once.

“He went off after that supposed ‘god’ you brought with you. The idiot wanted to go for a walk by the river,” Lambert snorts derisively.

“I did try to talk him out of it, Geralt,” Eskel places a comforting hand on his arm, as though he thinks Geralt might be annoyed with them for not stopping Jaskier. “I warned him about the monsters, but he was determined to go.”

“He’s fucking weird,” Lambert grumbles. “What the hell  _ is  _ he? All Vesemir would tell us last night was that he was an ‘Opisa’ or something. I had to go look that up before bloody dawn. Could only find one tiny fucking paragraph in one really old, dusty book that was shoved on a top shelf at the very back of the library.”

“How awful for you,” Eskel comments drily. “And it was an ‘Orisa’, you moron.”

“What did you find out?” Geralt asks. He’s slightly worried, remembering what his own initial research into River gods had uncovered. It had turned out to be inaccurate and unflattering and he needs to disabuse his brothers of any false notions they’ve picked up as soon as possible.

“Not much. Powerful nature spirit, blah blah, created using a human sacrifice, blah blah, enchants and ensnares, blah blah.” Lambert’s tone is unconcerned and mocking, but his eyes are sharp. Both he and Eskel are examining Geralt intently.

“They’re all people who drowned in their river,” Geralt corrects. He still regrets his woefully inadequate response when he and Jaskier had visited the site of the god’s murder. His ignorance at the time of Jaskier’s true nature does little to soothe the ache the memory has left behind. “Jaskier’s not sure what singles them out to transform into Orisa, but there’s no slitting of throats and letting the river run red with blood, or any of that nonsense.  _ They _ , in effect, are the sacrifice.”

He doesn’t explain more. If Jaskier wants to share his sad beginning, then that is his story to tell.

“He doesn’t come across as a powerful deity,” Eskel chimes in cautiously. “Except for how he seems to have you and Vesemir wrapped around his little finger.” He grabs Geralt’s face, looking deep into his eyes, searching for something. “Are you  _ sure _ he hasn’t bewitched you?

“No! Don’t brush me off.” Eskel cuts Geralt off when he opens his mouth enraged, ready to defend Jaskier. “I want you to examine all your interactions with him and tell me honestly if you think he’s manipulating your feelings. I’ve never seen you pine for someone the way you did for him almost eight years ago.”

That had been the winter just after Jaskier had been stabbed. When he’d been confused and hurting and knew only that Jaskier was beginning to recover somewhere out of his reach. He hasn’t had such a dark and depressing winter since, and he hopes never to have one like it again.

He’s furious at Eskel’s claim that he might be enchanted, even though he recognises how hypocritical that is. He had had the same fear. It had almost cost him  _ Jaskier _ .

The trouble is, he doesn’t know how to assure them that he’s not bewitched and that Vesemir is just being unashamedly  _ nosy _ . Jaskier is better at explanations than him, but it’s not as if the bard’s account would be taken without a large pinch of salt.

“If I were bewitched, we would have been together years ago. And I don’t  _ pine _ .”

This does help break the tension slightly, as both Lambert and Eskel roll their eyes at him.

“I know what he can do. I’ve  _ seen  _ him do it, but I trust him. We’ve travelled together for almost twenty years and he’s never pushed me for more than I’m willing to give.”

This doesn’t exactly relax either witcher, but before they can continue to question him, Vesemir comes striding into the dining room, a disgruntled expression on his face.

“I thought you wanted us working on the east wall all day?” Lambert was the only one with enough cheek to call Vesemir out so openly.

“It can wait until tomorrow. Geralt has some explaining to do first.”

“Did you really follow him out?” Geralt raises an eyebrow incredulously. His brothers and Vesemir are going to give Jaskier anxiety issues if they don't ease up soon.

“He dived into the river and swam upstream. Have you seen how fast he can swim? It’s extraordinary. Do you think his biology has adapted to allow him to move with such speed through water? How much does he weigh? Maybe if his bones are lighter…”

“What’s the story with the girl?” Geralt is grateful for Eskel’s interruption.

He can feel the judgement in their gazes as he tells them of his first visit to Cintra, his foolish claim under the Law of Surprise and his resolute avoidance of the country since.

“Well,” Vesemir doesn’t sound very impressed. “At least you stepped up when you absolutely had to. The princess will be safe here. We can train her up to be as fierce as her grandmother.”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll start teaching her the basics tomorrow. Some sword forms and how to move and dodge. We’ll need to build up her physical condition too. Ensure her diet is appropriate.

“Lambert, you can go out and gather the mushrooms and herbs we’ll need.”

“Why me?” Lambert complains. 

“Because I’m not foolish enough to believe you’ll actually be much help with repairing the wall. Eskel and Geralt will help me with that. Where is the girl?”

“Coën’s showing her the library,” Geralt reveals.

“Coën can no doubt entertain her until Jaskier gets back, then he can switch with you, Geralt, so you can give your guests the basic tour. Understood?”

They all nod and a tight knot of anxiety in Geralt’s chest begins to loosen. Things aren’t perfect yet, but at least his brothers seem willing to give Jaskier a chance, and they’ll help with training Ciri. They have a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the long anticipated appearance of Gwen!
> 
> If you fancy saying hi then you can find me [here](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier _finally_ have a room of their own with a door that locks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely messages, they were really appreciated. This series began when I'd had a really bad week, and writing it has continued to get me through multiple tough times since then. 
> 
> A special thanks to my amazing beta [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/).

It’s not until their first evening in Kaer Morhen, when Ciri gives Jaskier a kiss on the cheek and heads up to bed in her  _ own  _ room, that Geralt realises the opportunity he’s been given. 

Jaskier had turned up late morning, hair dripping wet and had good naturedly offered to help Coën clear out and air a room for Ciri. He’d then spent the rest of the day helping in the kitchen. He and Ciri had dashed all over Kaer Morhen that evening, Jaskier creating a game out of trying to get from point A to point B with minimal detours and dead ends. Geralt had been sternly forbidden from helping them by the bard, though he had been favoured with a soft smile and a lingering kiss.

Their most enthusiastic discovery had been the natural hot springs housed in the basement of Kaer Morhen. Ciri had insisted on a proper bath straight away, putting an end to their exploring. Jaskier had stood guard outside, ready to head off any of the witchers who might want a bath while the young princess was bathing. Geralt had joined him, feeling a small thrill at the ease with which Jaskier reached for his hand and leaned against his side.

“Where were you this morning?” Geralt had asked, playing with the fingers entangled within his own.

“Had to go down to the river. It’s polite to check in with the local river deity if I’m going to be spending any length of time in their territory.”

Geralt had frowned slightly. “I don’t remember you doing that before.”

Jaskier had shrugged. “We were always on the move. Never really stayed anywhere long enough to make a big deal of my visit. Occasionally I’d go have a drink with them while you completed a contract, but Mama and Old Father Pontar are very relaxed about each other’s children wandering into their territories. All the other major northern Rivers respect Mama as well. So long as I didn’t cause any trouble, I was free to go about as I pleased.”

He had trailed off and Geralt had suppressed a wince as he remembered a certain incident on a mountain; one he would very much like to forget, one where Jaskier had only been able to save him from being impaled by defacing another River’s territory. 

“Not such a free rein now?” he’d hazarded a guess.

“No,” Jaskier had admitted. “There’s now a general unspoken agreement that I check in more often. Woke up this morning with an irresistible compulsion to go pay my respects. I should probably go see Uncle Buina sometime soon too, but it’s Gwen’s river I’m planning on staying near for several months, so she took precedence.”

Geralt had considered questioning him further, but Ciri had reappeared and Jaskier had been charmed by Vesemir into playing for them. Geralt needed to tell the older witcher to stop trying to butter up his partner. His uncharacteristic welcoming of a stranger into the keep was putting everyone else on edge. 

Jaskier is going to be stuck with them for months. Vesemir will have plenty of time to conduct his inquisition.

Still, the entertainment the bard had provided had gone over well, especially with Coën, and he had wisely avoided his more boisterous ‘Witcher Melodies’ and stuck to his far less controversial nature ballads. Geralt had been content to sit quietly by the fire, Ciri pressed sleepily to his side, admiring the fine form of his River god.

Now, he is acutely aware that this is the first time since he kissed Jaskier in his own river, all the way back in Lettenhove, that they’ve been properly alone. 

With a bed.

And a door that locks.

And for the first time in many years, he’s feeling a very peculiar sort of vulnerability. It’s a feeling he thought he’d left behind in his youth after his first tentative patronage of a brothel. There have been many women, and a few men, he’s bedded since, and he’s not generally self-conscious about displaying his body. He knows his physique makes up for his scars, and the scars even attract a certain type.

But none of these people meant anything. They weren’t  _ Jaskier. _

Who, it should be pointed out, has seen Geralt naked more often than anyone else he knows. So why does it feel so different now? 

Now that they’re alone in Geralt’s room in Kaer Morhen. With a door that locks?

“Hey,” Jaskier’s voice filters through his nervous inner monologue. The River god is in just his shirt and trousers, the fire that’s been burning all day keeping the room at a respectable temperature. He reaches out to tuck a fallen strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear and crowds in close. “Everything alright?” he checks.

Geralt lets out a shaky breath and nods, before ducking his head to catch Jaskier’s mouth for a long slow kiss.

“Mmmm…” Jaskier hums his approval when they break apart and dives in for another, wrapping his arms around his witcher’s neck and pressing the entire length of his body against him.

Geralt’s breath catches when Jaskier deliberately rocks his hips against him. The room suddenly feels far too hot, and the scorching line of Jaskier’s body against his is almost too much. He’s forced to break the kiss to take a much needed gasp of air, tilting his head back so as not to overwhelm his senses with all things Jaskier. 

But while Jaskier is many things, merciful is not necessarily one of them. As Geralt vainly tries to collect himself enough to form a coherent thought, Jaskier twists his hips in a merciless tease. Teeth nip at his earlobe and his head thumps against the wall as he jerks in shock. 

Is this how Jaskier had made all his previous lovers feel? No wonder they looked ready to kidnap him. 

A hot tongue darts out to soothe the nip and, as Jaskier murmurs “You asked me on the way here what forms of worship I enjoy”, his breath against Geralt’s damp skin sends shivers through his body.

It’s only the way Jaskier is plastered against him that keeps him standing upright against the wall. When he glances down, he can make out the clear, tantalizing stretch of Jaskier’s neck. A primal part of him wants to sink his teeth into it, bite down and leave a clear mark.

“All worship feels good, but the one I enjoy most of all involves bare skin pressed against bare skin.” His hands skim down Geralt’s sides and tug his shirt from his trousers before slipping underneath. His palms burn like a brand against Geralt’s naked ribs and he can’t help but arch into it.

“Jaskier,” he groans, resting his forehead against the top of the bard’s head. His hands hover awkwardly over Jaskier’s waist, unsure of what to touch first. What Jaskier will allow him to touch.

“It felt so good to be worshipped this way.” And Geralt forces himself to push away the spike of possessive jealousy he feels at that statement. Luckily, Jaskier hasn’t finished speaking. “But I can’t help wondering how much better it would feel if it were you, Geralt? How it would feel to be so intimate with the man I adore? Who swam in my river with me? Willingly. Who’s already been a part of me?”

Geralt snaps.

He hoists Jaskier up into his arms as the god laughs and wraps his long legs around Geralt’s waist. In this position he towers over Geralt and the witcher looks up into the river blue eyes he loves with every fibre of his being.

How he manages to get them to the bed without tripping over anything is nothing short of miraculous, because he can’t take his eyes off the spectacular, laughing deity clinging to him. But he does, and wastes no time in divesting them both of their remaining layers.

The rest of the night is dedicated to discovering all the ways he can make Jaskier sing as Geralt loses himself in the sacred worship of his River god. Devotion, he decides, is best shown with hands and lips, laughter and moans, sweat slicked skin and soft sighs.

Afterwards, he holds Jaskier close as the god sprawls half on top of him, one leg thrown possessively over both his own and his ear pressed against Geralt’s heart. Fingers that have proven themselves very clever indeed, draw intricate patterns across his bicep and he occasionally raises his head to press an affectionate kiss to Geralt’s chest.

“I was right,” Jaskier mumbles sleepily.

“About what, little Kingfisher?” Geralt carefully brushes the tangles from Jaskier’s hair with his fingers. 

“So much better than anything before. Couldn’t you feel it Geralt? It was like we were two streams merging into one river and our waters mingled and became one.”

“Hmm…”

Trust Jaskier to wax poetic at such a moment. 

The fire is just embers in the hearth, and he knows he should get up to tend to it. But he can’t bring himself to break this moment. Soon, the stickiness and the cold will become intolerable but, he closes his eyes and basks within that invisible connection he can feel tethering him to Jaskier, that is going to be very much a problem for future Geralt.

* * *

Personally, Jaskier is of the opinion that cheek kisses are severely under-rated. They’re so versatile! Appropriate in almost all situations. A quick brush of lips on the cheek when meeting a fond acquaintance. A slightly more loving peck for family. And for lovers…

Well, the possibilities are endless.

A quick, easy, socially acceptable display of affection, a reminder of feelings, a lingering promise of things to come. 

A kiss on the cheek can be so much more than just a kiss on the cheek. 

Jaskier presses his lips to the soft skin just over Geralt’s cheek bone, which sits safely above the slight scratchiness of stubble. He lets them rest there for just a moment before pulling back with a soft smacking sound and nuzzling his nose against Geralt’s cheek. The witcher’s embarrassment at receiving such affection in front of his family is just an added bonus!

Across the table, Lambert shoots them a disgusted look. Beside him, Ciri gags at them theatrically in mock disgust.

“You two are gross,” she complains through a mouthful of breakfast. Jaskier considers half-heartedly scolding her for speaking with her mouth full, but he’s too happy. Four months ago, he would never have believed the previous night could ever happen. Not after the words they’d spat at each other at the end of the dragon hunt.

“Yup,” he beams at her. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

“Winter preparations,” Eskel informs him, eying the rather spectacular bruise he’d managed to leave on Geralt’s throat the night before. Witcher healing means that leaving any lasting marks is rather difficult; bruises tend to heal within a few hours. Jaskier had diligently and repeatedly attended to that spot with his tongue and teeth to get the mark to stay. He  _ likes _ seeing proof of himself on Geralt’s skin. He fully intends to investigate that same spot again tonight.

“Got to stock up on wood supplies, clean the common rooms and fix the walls,” Geralt explains, self-consciously trying to tug up his jacket to obscure the mark. He doesn’t succeed. Jaskier has made sure to leave it prominently right where his neck meets his remarkable jaw.

“I’m not sure how good we’ll be at fixing walls,” Jaskier muses, shooting Ciri a wink. “But we can definitely help with the cleaning.”

“It would be appreciated,” Vesemir gives him a respectful nod from the head of the table. The old witcher still has a gleam in his eye, but he’s toned down his more overt attempts to corner Jaskier. Geralt had explained Vesemir’s fascination with him when they were getting dressed that morning and he’s resigned himself to sitting down with the old witcher at some point in the near future and trying to put into words what he can’t explain.

“If we work hard, Lambert will give Ciri a sword lesson this afternoon. If there’s still enough light after that, Eskel and Geralt will take her round the Killer.”

Jaskier barely hears Ciri’s exclamation of joy as his head whips round to stare in horror at Vesemir. “The Killer!” he splutters, with half a mind to drag Ciri away from this obviously deranged witcher.

Sensing his panic, Geralt grabs his hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“It’s a nickname, Jaskier. You know how dramatic young boys can be. It’s a difficult trail that we use to increase stamina and improve movement.” He turns to Ciri, well aware that she doesn’t like to be talked about and not included in the discussion. “You’ll learn how to improve your balance and judge difficult terrain, as well as increase your speed. Eskel and I will walk it with you today and explain how to deal with the tricky sections.”

“That sounds brilliant!” Ciri enthuses, determined to strain Jaskier’s heart. She notices the wild look in his eyes. “I’ll be fine, Papa. Geralt will be there to keep me safe.” 

Jaskier doesn’t like it. If he had his way, then Ciri would never  _ need  _ to pick up a sword. She’d never  _ have  _ to fight for her life. But if Lettenhove had taught him anything, it was that he can’t rely on himself alone to keep Ciri safe. Knowing how to fight and defend herself will help her keep herself safe and allow her some independence. And for some odd reason, Ciri  _ wants  _ to learn how to fight. She’s  _ interested  _ in swords and terrifying paths that previous generations of potential witchers had nicknamed ‘The Killer’.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He lets Geralt go off with his brothers and Coën after breakfast, before dragging Ciri to the kitchen to give it a proper scrub. She grumbles throughout as he sets her to scouring pans that look as if they’ve been collecting dirt for decades. But once he’s organised the kitchen to his satisfaction and helped her put away the ironware, he entertains her by throwing a bucket of soapy water over the floor. They sit cross legged on the sturdy wooden table and watch as he makes it crash like waves over the stone, sweeping up all the dirt, before he forces it out into the courtyard, leaving a near spotless floor drying in its wake.

“How are you finding everything?” he gives her a little nudge as she slumps against him. He’s been wanting to talk to her on her own. To check in on her without an audience.

She chews her lip thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the gleaming floor.

“Alright, I guess.”

“You guess?”

She shrugs. “I’m looking forward to learning how to use a sword. Grandmother and Grandfather always promised to teach me, but they were always too busy.” Her mouth turns down slightly with familiar sadness at the thought of her grandparents, and Jaskier wraps a comforting arm around her in silent support. “And I really like Coën. He’s very friendly and he says he’ll teach me how to play chess. The others are a bit scary though.”

Jaskier thinks of Lambert’s brashness, Eskel’s silent inspections and Vesemir’s intimidating seniority. He can see why she thinks so, but he doesn’t know what he can do to help. Geralt is the one who knows these men and none (apart from Vesemir) seem all that fond of their River god guest.

“Do you want me to join you for your lesson with Lambert?” He’s by no means a sword expert, but Trava had ensured he knew the basics (when in doubt make sure you hit your enemy with the sharp end).

Ciri considers this carefully, twisting a lock of hair round her fingers. “No,” she decides. “I don’t think he’ll respect me if I don’t face him on my own.” It’s the kind of thinking that you learn in a royal court and Jaskier wishes with all his heart that Ciri could unlearn it. Let herself believe that he is strong enough to hold them both above water.

“Are you sure? I could just hide in a corner and be ready to jump in.” She giggles but he’s completely serious. He’d do it.

“No, I’m almost thirteen! I’ll be fine.” 

Gods. She’s almost thirteen. How in Mama’s name has that happened? He’d only looked away for a moment and she was almost a teenager. Weren’t there rules about this sort of thing? Can he just ban her from growing up? Ina, he knows, spent almost twenty years being ten before she let herself start to age. Could Ciri not do the same, for his sake?

“Papa?” She peers up at him with large green eyes, oblivious to his internal crisis. “Do you think Eyck’s alright? Will he be managing by himself?”

“He’ll be fine,” Jaskier assures. “I left Boxer in charge; he’ll look after him.”

“Papa!” Ciri’s unimpressed by his attempt at humour. The truth is, he is a little concerned about his acolyte. He doesn’t think any hostile force could gain entry into his house, but Eyck does like to take frequent trips up and down the Pankratz (rescuing animals and keeping the peace). He hopes no Nilfgaardian or any other suspicious character is bold enough to attempt to attack him on one of his trips. Jaskier has asked his siblings to keep an eye on Eyck for him.

“He’s a good fighter,” Jaskier tries again. “And he’s not going to go out of his way to attract a confrontation.”

“I miss him,” Ciri admits. “And I miss Lettenhove. It was nice to have a home again.”

“It will always be your home, for as long as you want,” Jaskier promises, pressing a teary kiss to the top of her head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quieter chapter this time, but I wanted to have a quiet moment just between Jaskier and Ciri. Things start to get a bit more... spirited next week.
> 
> If you want to say hi, then you can find me [here](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is struggling and Ciri is acting strange.

Jaskier is lonely.

It’s an odd feeling for him. He’s never really been prone to it. Lettenhove was probably the first time he’d felt totally lonely. With Geralt seemingly gone from his life forever, he’d been trapped in the city, far away from Ciri, unable to dip into his river on a whim and head off to visit his family. He’d been utterly bereft.

Before that he’d never really experienced it. Growing up, he’d always had Mama and Aunty Irina (and her girls). His siblings were frequent visitors, there was almost always one of them at Mama’s. When he’d grown up and started travelling with Geralt, he'd always had the witcher, while the inhabitants of almost every town they came across would flock to him.

Now there’s only Geralt and Ciri. The former is busy with chores and training during the day. The latter is breaking his heart..

She is pulling increasingly away from his side. The other witchers have taken to her in a way they haven’t to Jaskier. Even surly, foul-mouthed Lambert has a soft spot for the young princess, though he tries to hide it with insults. She’s increasingly joining them for weapons training, leaving Jaskier to mope about on his own in the keep.

He’d tried going down to watch, once, but he seemed to disrupt the flow of the practice and he’s not been back since. Eskel and Lambert seemed particularly on edge, and Vesemir kept stopping in the middle of training to come over and ask Jaskier yet another question about River gods.

So Jaskier is finding himself spending most of his time down by the river with Gwen. She doesn’t seem to mind his presence and enjoys listening to him gossip about the affairs of the other Rivers. She’s a bit out of the loop, so he makes sure she’s all caught up on who’s fighting with whom (Ismena and Adalette’s little tryst ended badly and Ismena is currently persona non grata in Mama’s territory).

He brings his lute down and composes by the riverbank. She offers praise and criticism where due but is mostly content to sit quietly and bask in the music. It’s nice, and he really appreciates having a family member close by, but she’s only one, very quiet, companion.

Geralt, Jaskier admits, is doing his best. In the evenings he tries hard to include Jaskier in discussions and draw him into games of dice and cards. When all else seems to fail, he drags Jaskier back to their room and fucks him gently under the furs. Contrary to his physical stature, Geralt prefers soft, sweet sex. He likes to take his time, exploring every nook and crevice of Jaskier’s body with his fingers and lips, before rocking slowly into him and unhurriedly bring them both to completion.

That’s not to say Geralt doesn’t also appreciate it when Jaskier decides to take charge, hold him down and make him beg for mercy.

It’s just, and Jaskier realises how awful this is, he can’t help but slightly resent Geralt.

Ciri is spending more and more of her time with the witcher, basking in his guidance and subtle affection. And Jaskier is thrilled that they’re developing a close bond. _Really_. He is.

But she’s seeking _him_ out less and less.

She adores swordplay and, while the weather allowed, she was excitedly telling him about her progress running the Killer, but it’s not an interest he can share with her. They both know it, no matter how assiduously he listens to her tales. He prefers the arts, and while she appreciates his music and the poems he composes for her enjoyment, she has no interest in learning his craft herself.

He wishes his family were here. They seem too far away. 

Adalette would listen to him and soothe his fears, while Ina would call him a fool but still impart useful advice. Vda would stand silently behind him in her usual manner of support, a constant trusted presence. Etta, as always, would be loud and flamboyant. She’d fill up this dreary keep with colour and revelry.

But it’s Trava he misses most. The only two sons, they’ve always had a close bond (outnumbered as they are by their sisters). Trava would help Jaskier smooth over whatever this anxiety is that the other witchers feel about him. He’d be charming and friendly, but with an edge to him that would prevent the others from excluding them. He may not be Mama’s oldest but he’s her right hand. Her diplomat. 

Jaskier supposes, had things been different, he might have been jealous of the effortless way Trava appears to sail through life. Except his brother has never hesitated to come to Jaskier’s aid and defence.

Jaskier wants Mama as well. He’s not seen her since before the Nilfgaardian war. The last time they’d been face to face, she’d banished him to Lettenhove and he’d _hated_ her for it. He doesn’t hate her anymore. He just misses her.

He wants to apologise to her for (alright, he can admit it to himself) being a bit of a brat. He wants to tell her he loves her and hear her say it back. They didn’t say it the last time they parted, each too angry with the other, and it’s been weighing on him for months. 

More than anything, Jaskier wants her advice. Because raising a child? It turns out it’s hard and, as the youngest, he has no frame of reference. His own childhood seems so long ago.

Rationally, he knows he should expect Ciri to display some mood swings, but are they supposed to be so extreme? And is she supposed to be so aggressive? Lately, the little nudges she gives him when he teases her have become much harder and she seems more irritated than amused by his quips. There’s a truculent undercurrent to her now, and she’ll often try and wrestle one of the witchers to the ground in a surprise attack. They _encourage_ such behaviour.

When, out of the blue, she’d barrelled into Jaskier one morning, he’d almost tumbled down the stairs, only narrowly catching himself on the wall. She’d apologised, but begrudgingly, while castigating him about the need to keep his guard up.

He’s worried, but when he’d tried to ask her if anything was wrong, she’d snapped at him and gone off to polish swords with Eskel.

He misses the little girl who used to climb him like a tree and get dirt all over his fine clothes. The little girl who was entranced by his stories and always happy to see him. His darling little princess who adored his company.

She hasn’t referred to him as ‘Papa’ in a week.

Geralt thinks he’s overreacting. 

“She’s growing up, Jaskier. It’s a difficult time for her and she’s surrounded by grown men. It can’t be easy for her. There must be… woman things, she doesn’t want to talk to us about.”

Jaskier laughs at him, as he curls in closer to Geralt’s side. It’s moments like this, when they cuddle together late at night, which make all the other unpleasantness worth it. “Woman things?” he muffles his snorts of laughter into Geralt’s neck. 

“You know what I mean,” Geralt grumbles, embarrassed.

“No, I have no clue,” Jaskier protests with false innocence. “Please enlighten me Geralt. What sort of woman things should we be on the lookout for?”

Geralt tries to shove him off the bed, but Jaskier clings to him like a limpet.

“I don’t know! You’re the one with sisters. There wasn’t exactly much feminine influence growing up here.”

Jaskier continues to tease him, but Geralt has sparked an idea that grows in the back of Jaskier’s mind.

He _does_ have sisters. 

He briefly considers asking Gwen to help him with Ciri, but their relationship is too new to ask this much of her. 

Jaskier would love to invite Adalette to visit because she’s sweet and good natured and he defies anyone to sit down for a chat with her and not like her by the end. But Ina is the sister with the expertise he needs. So, he says goodbye to his pride and writes a suitably humble letter, begging her to come and talk with Ciri, and goes down to the Gwenllech to ask the River herself to deliver it.

Ina does not reply but, as Jaskier had fully expected, comes tearing up north to sort out her little brother. She doesn’t come up to the keep but instead transmits a jarring greeting into Jaskier’s brain, leaving his ears ringing. Perhaps she thinks all this time away from the Yaruga has made him deaf?

Ciri is not impressed when he requests her company that morning. Geralt is no help either. He’s been promising Ciri a turn with an actual steel sword instead of a practice wooden one and the previous evening had declared that she was now proficient enough to have a few swings. Neither like the idea of her wasting what little daylight they have at this time of year to accompany Jaskier.

Ciri grumbles and whines and Geralt _backs her up_ . Jaskier has wanted to strangle Geralt many times during their long acquaintance, but never more so than just now. It’s only the presence of the other witchers around the breakfast table that forces him to keep his temper. He _will_ be having a serious talk with Geralt about this later.

“Perhaps I should have been clearer. This is _not_ a request, Ciri. Ina has come all this way to check up on us both and say hello. You will not insult her by choosing sword practice over her visit.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt still tries to object, but Jaskier cuts him off.

“Geralt, Mama help me, if you keep this up, I’ll turn that hot spring you’re all so fond of cold every time you as much as dip a toe in it. Don’t for a moment think that is beyond my powers.”

Lambert snorts quietly off to the side and mutters something no doubt rude and derogatory to Coën.

“This isn’t fair!” Ciri complains, her cheeks beginning to puff out in the beginnings of a truly epic tantrum.

“Tough,” Jaskier grinds his teeth. “Go and get your cloak.”

She slams her fists down on the table as she stands, causing the tableware to tremble at the force of her blow. Jaskier manages to get up more sedately to collect his own cloak, despite desperately wanting to follow her example and have his own meltdown. 

Ciri refuses to talk to him as they make their way down to the river, angrily kicking any stone that gets in her way. She doesn’t even pretend that she’s pleased to see Ina, who’s wrapped up warmly and sitting primly on a felled tree trunk. 

Ina herself had been prepared to greet Jaskier with her usual rebuke (which all her family knows is her way of saying ‘I love you’), but instead, witnessing Ciri’s behaviour, she raises an enquiring eyebrow at her brother over the girl’s head. He doesn’t even try to hide his desperation.

She begins by making some inane small talk, trying to cajole Ciri into calming down and making proper conversation. Ciri irritably grunts back half-hearted responses. Ina’s expression becomes more and more pinched and Jaskier fears he’s correct. This is not just puberty rearing its ugly head. Something is wrong with Ciri.

“Given the rather harsh environment up here,” Ina finally dispenses with polite conversation and gets to the real reason for her visit. “I think it would be a good idea if I check you both over. Ciri, you first. Then you can get back to your sword practice.” Ina knows how to coax the girl. “Jaskier, go away. Come back in half an hour”

Half an hour later and Jaskier is not sure which of the _darling_ witchers back at the keep he’s going to behead first.

* * *

Geralt is worried about Jaskier.

His River god has been uncharacteristically withdrawn and has begun isolating himself from the rest of the group. He knows this is partly his brothers’ fault. They’re still suspicious and show it. But he needs Jaskier to be his usual intrusive self and force them to spend more time in his company. Not quietly withdraw. When has Jaskier ever done anything quietly? Why has he chosen to start now?

Lambert and Eskel will warm to him once they’ve spent enough time in his company to realise he isn’t altering their behaviour. With them will come Coën, who is cautiously trying to stay on the good side of everyone. 

Jaskier will feel better once the tension eases. Geralt just needs him to keep trying to accommodate his brothers in the meantime. Dragging Ciri away this morning has not helped. Lambert grumbles at him and Eskel looks unimpressed.

“Are we to expect an invasion of Orisa this winter?”

Geralt looks at Eskel, unamused. “Ina would have no issue with marching right into the keep if the fancy took her. If she’s meeting Jaskier and Ciri by the river, it means she’s respecting our home.”

Eskel does not look convinced as he faces Geralt, sword drawn. They clash, blocking and parrying, before Geralt manages to get in close enough to grapple, forcing Eskel to drop his weapon or have his arm broken.

“You’re distracted. That was sloppy,” Geralt comments, handing Eskel his sword.

“I don’t like that there are a bunch of creatures I’ve only recently heard of with the power to swim up easily to our hidden fortress. Who knows what trouble they could bring?”

“They’ve been around for centuries, without your knowledge,” Geralt points out. “Why should suddenly knowing about them change anything.”

“Because you’ve decided to play happy families with one of them and open the door for him!” Eskel snarls in frustration. “You’re raising a fugitive princess together, and I like Ciri (I really do), but you’ve painted a giant target on your backs. I don’t know him or his kind well enough to be sure they won’t sell us out when the _armies_ after her start trying to hunt you down.”

“They’ve already rescued her from those armies once. When I _couldn’t_. You’re judging him to be weak and a coward without even giving him a chance!” Geralt refutes angrily. Lambert and Coën stop their own practice to shamelessly listen in. Vesemir has noticed their lack of activity from the other side of the yard and has started to make his way over.

“He makes me uneasy, Geralt,” Eskel insists. “You can’t expect us to welcome him with open arms, just because he’s wormed his way into your bed. Especially when you never mentioned what he was before turning up with him!”

“That’s not his fault, that’s on _me_ . You aren’t even _trying_ to get to know him!”

“He smells weird!” Eskel snaps, bringing Geralt up short.

Eskel seems almost embarrassed by his outburst, pathetic as it sounds, but Coën pipes up in his defence. “He’s right. Whenever I try to catch his scent, I get… more than just a smell. It’s strange.”

Geralt resists the urge to groan. He knows what they mean, but he’s not sure how to explain it. Until he took a dip in Jaskier’s own river with him, he’d never really understood Jaskier’s scent either (had ignored it, as he had ignored so many hints of Jaskier’s true nature). It was only after that fateful swim that he realised that Jaskier didn’t just give off a particular smell, but also gave off flashes of… him. Of his river.

When they’re alone in their room and Geralt lets himself bury his nose in Jaskier’s neck, he gets the expected scent of body odour and whatever perfume Jaskier’s currently favouring, but also senses something else.

He _hears_ the thwack, thwack, thwack of the loom treadles as the hundreds of weavers create beautiful, extravagant cloth in Lettenhove’s warehouses. His head is filled with the numerous plays performed in its theatres. He can _taste_ the smoked fish that hundreds of travellers catch and cook along the Pankratz’s banks. He can _feel_ the powerful webbed feet of hundreds of ducks frantically paddling below the water.

Before binding himself to Jaskier, he’d been unable to understand these strange sensations either (had not been able to fully concentrate on them). Now he does. Jaskier is not just a powerful water entity in a man’s body. He is also the _river_. He is every molecule of water that ever has or ever will flow downstream. 

It makes him both incredibly powerful and incredibly vulnerable at the same time. If anything happens to his river, then Jaskier would…

Geralt doesn’t dare contemplate it.

“It’s a River god thing,” he tries to explain. He has no idea how he’s going to take this forward, but that’s when the deity in question comes barging into the training ground, a squirming Ciri clutched tightly in his furious grip.

Geralt is vaguely aware of Ina trailing in after them, but his attention is wrested away by Jaskier’s livid expression. He is also giving off a certain aura, the snow around them melting into steaming puddles and converging at his feet. 

_“How could you_?” he fumes, blue eyes flashing. The meltwater is creeping outwards, towards the witchers. Lambert, Eskel and Coën automatically reach for their swords, readying themselves for battle.

“Jaskier?” he questions, putting himself between the god and his brothers. He’s not really sure which of them he’s trying to protect.

“ _How could you be such a moron?_ ” Jaskier shouts at him, shaking Ciri’s arm. She looks up at Jaskier with tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. Geralt reaches out a hand towards her, but the bard pulls her behind him with a jolt.

“ _No!”_ Jaskier spits, saliva flying out of his mouth in his rage. “I’m not letting any of you lay a hand on her! Not after what you’ve done!”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Lambert yells over. “We haven’t done anything to her! Now let her go. You’ll hurt her.”

“Back off Lambert!” Jaskier yells in fury, his voice echoing throughout the courtyard.

The water on the ground lunges threateningly towards Lambert.

“Jaskier, calm down. We don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Jaskier rounds on him. “No, you don’t! And doesn’t that just speak for your _utter_ incompetence!

“What I’m talking about, _darling,”_ Jaskier snarls the last word, teeth bared. “Is how you managed to _poison_ her with your ineptitude!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is mad and he takes no prisoners!
> 
> A huge thanks to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this chapter. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, if you want find me on tumblr then I'm [here!](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was _hard_.
> 
> I'm not really an argumentative person. I tend to avoid shouting. I'm that really annoying person who decides everyone just needs to take some time to cool off so we can then have a reasonable discussion.
> 
> So, I need to extend a huge thank you to my other half who, having listened to me moan, tried to start an argument with me. When that failed he stood in the kitchen and argued with himself and let me record it. I think it's one of the loveliest things he's done (and he stops to helps little old ladies cross the road safely).
> 
> Another massive thank you to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading this chapter.

Geralt’s eyes skim in alarm up and down Ciri’s trembling form. She’s red-eyed and teary, but she doesn’t seem to be in any pain.

“Poison?” he questions worriedly. “What poison?”

“Those _fucking salads_ you’ve been shoving down her throat! I _can’t believe_ I just let it go! I _can’t believe_ I didn’t question _why_ she was eating extra greens! I _stupidly_ thought you were just watching out for her! That you were _trying_ to keep her healthy before winter really sets in!”

_Salad?_ This entire, dramatic confrontation is about _salad?_

He brings his hand to his head to try and massage the growing tension forming between his eyebrows. At least his brothers have backed down, standing awkwardly on the sidelines as they unashamedly watch the spectacle Jaskier is putting on.

“It’s not poison, Jaskier.” He tries to pull Jaskier to the side, to give them the illusion of privacy. Jaskier slaps his hand away, refusing to be appeased.

“ _You drugged her!_ ” he screams. “Without telling me what you were doing! You _betrayed_ my trust and fed her stupid, secret, witcher enhancing herbs without my permission!”

“And they’re not hurting her, Jaskier!” Geralt snaps back, fed up with the accusations being hurled at him. “We all ate them as boys when we were training. They _help_ her!”

_“Help!”_ Jaskier’s voice reaches a pitch Geralt didn’t know was possible for the human voice . “You call mood swings, bouts of sudden aggression and extreme irritability _helping_?”

“You’re overreacting!” Geralt doesn’t think Ciri’s been that bad.

It is, absolutely, the worst thing he could have said.

The water may have been steaming at Jaskier’s feet, but when it hits Geralt in the face, it’s ice cold and aimed right at his eyes.

Geralt yells out in shock and, half-blinded, claws at Jaskier, who darts quickly back with Ciri still securely behind him. The bard’s mouth is opening, no doubt to continue his diatribe, but that’s when Ina makes her presence known.

“ _Enough!_ ” she declares, drawing the attention of everyone in the yard to herself. “If you can both act like adults for a moment, then perhaps we can get to the bottom of this.”

No one moves or makes a sound. Geralt’s not sure if it’s Ina’s godliness or just an effect of her forceful personality but no one dares interrupt her when she uses that tone of voice. 

“The main issue here is that you’ve been feeding Ciri certain mushrooms and herbs that, as far as I can tell, are meant to boost her metabolism and help her build muscle.”

“Which is hardly poison,” Geralt can’t help but point out. Both River gods glare at him.

“As _I_ was saying,” Ina stresses. “The issue here is that these were previously fed to young boys who, around puberty, underwent the rather…” her mouth twists in revulsion. “Extreme mutations, for which you witchers are famous. I believe it was these mutations that helped you overcome the detrimental effects of these substances.”

An ice-cold feeling is settling in Geralt’s stomach and it has nothing to do with the water still dripping down his face. What detrimental effects?

“I applaud you for wanting to feed Ciri a diet appropriate for the physical training she is undertaking. But you’ve been feeding a young girl a diet previously only fed to young boys, many of whom would die in upcoming Trials. It’s clear to me you’ve never understood the full range of side effects these _drugs_ can have on the human body, specifically, in this case, the developing female body.

“These include, when fed to a girl about to undergo puberty, mood swings and a worrying level of aggression. If you continue to feed these to Ciri, the aggression and irritability are only going to get worse and you’re in serious danger of stunting her growth.”

A wyvern could have landed in the middle of the courtyard, set the roof on fire, and flown off, and Geralt doubts anyone would have noticed. 

What had they almost _done?_

All the witchers look slightly shaken and are straining to catch a glimpse of the young girl they might have injured with their ignorance. Vesemir, in particular, looks harrowed, the memory of every young boy he mentored who didn’t make it out of the Trials alive haunting him in this moment.

Jaskier shows them no mercy or sympathy. He is still trembling with rage and keeping Ciri well out of their line of sight.

“Now,” Ina continues briskly. “I can make some suggestions about a _safe_ and appropriate diet for Ciri while she’s training. That’s if,” her beady gaze lands on each witcher in turn, “this is something in which you gentlemen might be interested?”

“Of course,” Vesemir sounds slightly hoarse. “That would be marvellous. Shall we step inside?”

The others make to head back inside, but Jaskier stays put.

“Jaskier,” Geralt reaches out towards his lover. He can _feel_ the tumultuous whirlwind of Jaskier’s emotions, a never-ending cycle of grief, helplessness, desperation, and anger. “Let’s go inside. We can work this out.”

“ _We_ ?” Jaskier’s furious glare pins him in place, hand frozen reaching outwards. “ _We_ decide nothing. _You_ decided without me! _You_ went behind my back when you had no right to do so! She’s _my_ daughter, not yours! You were the one who wanted _nothing_ to do with her for twelve years!”

Geralt would have preferred it if Jaskier had physically struck him. He reels back speechless and undeniably _hurt._

But it’s true.

He had wanted nothing to do with Ciri before now. He had actively tried to run from her, to forget her. He had sought out a bloody djinn in the hope of breaking the bond he’d accidentally formed with her (and how ironic that all he’d managed to achieve was two new bonds). 

But that had been a mistake, and he was _trying_ to make up for that now. Jaskier _knew_ that. He’d _encouraged_ it.

He can’t cry; the mutations he underwent make that impossible. But there’s a hot, tight lump lodged in the back of his throat that’s as close as he can get. 

Ciri is looking up at him with her large, green eyes. 

Distraught. 

They’ve never talked about where he was for most of her life. He’d steeled himself for one day sitting her down and admitting his cowardice to her, but he’d never imagined that she’d find out like this. That _Jaskier_ would be the one to call him out so callously in front of her.

All the others have stopped, almost at the side door that leads into the main hall, turning to look at him.

He can’t stay here.

He can’t face them.

He can’t face Ciri.

He turns on his heel and practically sprints in the opposite direction.

* * *

Ciri manages to wriggle out of Jaskier’s hold the moment they get indoors and bolts off without so much as a backwards glance. He ignores Ina’s calls to leave her be and follows her.

He’s sick and tired of everyone’s recent attitude towards him, and has felt very hurt by Ciri’s behaviour in particular. Discovering that it’s partly the result of a secret witcher diet has cooled some of his ire towards her, but she’d still stomped and screamed at him when he’d dragged her back to Kaer Morhen earlier.

“Ciri,” he calls as he strides after her. She may have been getting faster and faster after all her training, but his legs are still much longer than hers and he has no trouble catching up with her.

“Leave me alone!”

“No, we need to talk.”

“I don’t _want_ to talk! Everything was _fine_ ! You _ruined_ it!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He catches the door to her bedroom as she attempts to slam it in his face. “Was I just imagining it when Ina warned us of stunted growth, potential tumours, likely heart problems and fertility issues?”

“But it was doing what I needed it to do! It was making me stronger! It was helping me fight!”

“You won’t be fighting when you have a heart attack!”

“That doesn’t matter!” she screams at him.

“Yes, it does!” and he’s screaming back at her. “And if you can’t understand that, there’ll be no more sword fighting lessons!”

She stops, with her mouth wide open in obvious horror.

“You _can’t_!” she exclaims, completely aghast.

“I can,” he threatens. “You think after this the witchers will teach you without my express permission? If I say no, then that’s it.”

“That’s not fair!”

“I don’t have to be fair! I’m your father!”

“ _No, you’re not!_ ”

His breath catches in his throat, and they both stare wide eyed at each other in dismay. Unable to pull back the words hanging in the air between them. 

Ciri lets out a sniffle, and Jaskier echoes it, then they’re both crying. Great big ugly sobs erupt from them both, and suddenly they’re clutching at each other, tears streaming down their cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ciri repeats over and over, muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean it.”

He fixes an arm around the top of her head, anchoring her to him. Refusing to let go.

“I can’t Ciri,” he moans. “I can’t let you do this if you’re going to deliberately try and get hurt. I need you to stay safe. Please, please let me keep you safe.”

They’re on the ground now, curled together against the wall, covered unashamedly in snot and tears.

“But I’m not safe,” Ciri wails. “I can never be safe! Not while Nilfgaard has Cintra. I need to get it back. I need to fight for it! Grandmother would have fought for it! I need to be a warrior, like her!”

Jaskier shakes at the thought, gathering her up more tightly in his arms.

He imagines her at the head of an army, sword drawn and charging into battle, and he instantly feels sick. He doesn’t want that for her. He wants her safe. That’s all he wants. He would give _anything_ for it.

“I need to kill that man,” Ciri howls. “I need to kill him! For what he did to Cintra! To me! For making me afraid!”

Ice is seizing his limbs and panic is gripping his thoughts. “Who?” he demands. 

“Him! The man in black armour! The black knight with the wings on his helmet! He was hunting me! I want him dead! I need him dead!”

Jaskier swears to himself that he’ll grant her wish. He’ll hunt this man down for her and slaughter him where he stands. Wherever this knight is, Jaskier will find him.

“Don’t take the sword away!” she begs. “Don’t take it away from me!”

He has to take a moment to breathe. A huge, gasping lungful of air. Trying to gather himself back together. To get himself under control.

“Alright,” he agrees hoarsely. “Alright. But we do it properly, without secret witcher herbs. We follow Ina’s advice and do it safely. And if you’re serious about retaking Cintra one day, then every third day you put down the sword and come and take lessons with me.”

She pulls her face away from his chest, ready to object, but he cuts her off.

“You think just knowing how to fight is going to win you back Cintra?”

“It’s how Grandmother kept her throne!”

“No,” Jaskier refutes. “It’s just one of several reasons Calanthe was able to keep a hold of her position. She was _known_ as a fighter, but the reason she was such a formidable opponent was because she knew how to direct _armies_. She had the best battle tactics because she understood strategy. 

“The witchers can show you how to analyse a single opponent, maybe even a small group, but they don’t get involved in warfare. They can’t show you how to analyse a battlefield full of thousands of men.”

“And you can?” Ciri asks doubtfully.

“No,” Jaskier admits. “But your Uncle Trava can. What I can teach you is politics. Don’t make that face.” He flicks Ciri’s nose as she shoots him a revolted look. “You’re going to need to know how to make allies.”

“But none of the Northern Kingdoms like the Nilfgaardians!” Ciri complains.

“None of the major kings do,” Jaskier corrects. “They’re worried about Nilfgaard trying to push into their kingdoms again. But the merchants are rather fond of Nilfgaard. They derive a lot of profit from it, and the kings can’t risk upsetting too many of the merchants. The merchants will either up their prices or take their goods elsewhere, and then it’s the common man that suffers. That’s how revolutions begin.

“Besides, let’s say a giant flood washes all the Nilfgaardians away tomorrow and you're set up as Queen. What are you going to do then? Wave a sword at every minister or diplomat who approaches you?”

“Grandmother threw a dagger at a Kerack diplomat once,” Ciri informs him seriously.

“Yes… Well, Kerack is a relatively minor, relatively new country without an awful lot of influence. _Yet_. If the diplomat had been from Redania, it could have turned out very badly for your grandmother. She picked her fights carefully.”

Ciri still doesn’t look enthused about these new lessons. 

She scrubs at her face, still streaked in dried tears and other less pleasant substances. 

“I need a bath.” She rises slowly to her feet and holds out a hand for him. He accepts and she makes a show of hauling him upright.

They leave the room together, but she pauses as she reaches the corridor that’ll take her to the baths. She looks slightly scared and unsure of herself, but darts forward to give him one last hug. “I love you, Papa,” she mumbles quietly.

“I love you too,” he breathes, the tension in his shoulders easing as she darts off, leaving him alone in the hallway.

He doesn’t want to join the others in the main hall. Doesn’t think he’s ready to face them yet.

He’s still so furious with all of them. They had made decisions about Ciri without him. Excluded him completely and gone over his head, and in doing so almost caused her serious harm. 

The others may not like him, or even trust him, but _Geralt_ should have known better.

He wanders back outside and onto the northern walls, staring blankly at the forest and snow-covered mountains stretching forever onwards in the distance. This is where Ina eventually finds him, and she settles next to him and slips an arm into his own.

“You did the right thing, getting me up here,” she informs him, and he laughs brokenly (because Ina hardly ever acknowledges when he’s done the right thing). 

“Breathe,” Ina instructs. “You spotted the warning signs; no permanent damage has been done, and I have instructed that Vesemir fellow on the proper care required for a young girl. The other witchers have been suitably cowed and I’ve told that rude one that if he swears in front of me again, I’ll be washing his mouth out with soap.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Jaskier admits, and lets Ina turn him round to face her so she can wrap him in a strong hug. He tries to tamp down a sob (he’s cried enough today) but now that he’s started again, he just can’t stop. She reaches up to run a steady hand across his head and he basks in the much-missed familial comfort.

When he’s calmer, she pulls back, eying him critically. 

“I’d wash your face before you go back in. Also,” she hesitates slightly. “I wouldn’t let your witcher suffer for too long. He messed up, but he didn’t deliberately set out to hurt anyone. And Mama knows just how much that idiot loves you.”

“How much?” Jaskier sniffs, fishing shamelessly for reassurance.

Ina whacks him lightly on the arm.

“Get him to tell you about our first conversation,” she tells him. “And Jaskier, do keep in touch. We all worry about you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the explanation was worth the wait! 
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on [tumblr!](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A witcher comes to talk to Jaskier. It's not the one he's expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments. I'm so glad that the argument came across as realistic!
> 
> I have to admit, this is probably my favourite chapter of this fic so far. After the stress of the last chapter, I found this one much easier to write.
> 
> Thanks again to my wonderful beta reader [Willowherb!](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/)

It’s freezing outside on the wall and the tip of his nose has gone numb, but Jaskier can’t bear to go back inside. He doesn’t want to have to talk to the witchers. They have made their opinion of him perfectly clear and he’s not impressed with them. 

For a brief moment, he considers whether it would be possible to transport Ciri safely down the mountain. Uncle Buina would ensure they were safe in Yspaden until spring came and then Jaskier could employ every scrap of influence his family possessed to keep her ten steps ahead of Nilfgaard. He dismisses the thought quickly. Ciri is trapped here for the winter, and as he has no intention of leaving her unsupervised among the witchers, that means he is too.

He’s just going to have to impose on their _hospitality_ for a while longer, as distasteful as they seem to find him.

“Does being a River god protect you from your balls freezing off?”

Jaskier jumps as the voice behind him catches him by surprise. He whirls around, heel catching on ice covered stone, and almost goes tumbling off the wall.

A strong arm catches his own and prevents his fall. 

Of all the witchers, it’s Lambert who has sought him out. In the hand not holding onto Jaskier is a mysterious brown glass bottle. It sloshes promisingly as he raises it.

“Vodka,” he announces. “Brewed it myself in the alchemy labs here. It won’t stop you feeling the cold, but it’ll make you care about it less.” He releases Jaskier so he can open it, taking a hearty swig before handing it to the bard.

The smell is enough to make Jaskier’s eyes water, but he is cold enough to take a mouthful. Lambert is right. Drink enough of that and you won't care about anything ever again.

“May I suggest,” Lambert shivers. “That if you insist on staying out here, we move along a bit to that handy brazier?”

“You don’t have to stay.” Jaskier eyes him suspiciously. Lambert was the very last of the witchers Jaskier would have expected to extend the metaphorical olive branch. 

Lambert doesn’t reply, just stamps his feet to get some warmth into them. After a moment, he stalks along the wall to light a fire in the nearby brazier, sighing in relief as he holds his hands up to the flame. When he realises that Jaskier still has hold of his booze, he gestures impatiently for the god to join him.

“Do you know how I came to Kaer Morhen?” he asks after gulping down a good fifth of the bottle.

Jaskier shakes his head.

“My dearest fucking father handed me over to become a witcher without a second of hesitation.” Lambert’s tone is filled with bitterness. It seems this is a long-carried wound, one he’s been constantly picking at instead of letting time scab it over.

Jaskier takes the bottle for another drink instead of replying, encouraging Lambert to carry on.

“He was a drunk, and a mean one at that. Beat me and my mam bloody most nights. I kept trying to convince her we should leave, but she was too scared about what he’d do if he caught up with us.

“We almost got lucky. The bastard was attacked by a monster when he was stumbling home one night. Except, because the world’s sense of humour fucking sucks, a witcher stepped in to save him. Course, my da can’t pay him, because he’s spent every copper we have on liquor.” Lambert goes to take another drink, but he must realise the irony of drinking his own homebrewed booze when complaining about his drunk father, because the bottle stops just short of his mouth.

“So, he pulls that old trick Geralt is so fond of.”

“Law of Surprise?” Jaskier guesses correctly.

“Fucking right. ‘Give me the first thing you see when you return home.’” Lambert laughs derisively.

“Should have been Ma. She was the one pacing up and down the house, fretting, waiting for him to get back. She heard his footsteps and started towards the door, but I leapt in front of her and opened it first. Wanted to protect her, just in case he came in swinging again.

“He grabbed me by the collar, shoved me at the witcher and shut the door in our faces. And Karl, the witcher, he was one of those mean bastards that ruined the reputation of witchers all across the Continent. Beat me black and blue all the way to Kaer Morhen for slowing him down, then dumped me on the doorstep before he buggered off.”

Fuck. 

No wonder Lambert’s so prickly. 

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jaskier’s heart sinks as he realises the story is going to get even worse.

“I _enjoyed_ my first few years here. Yeah, the training was hard, but when someone hit me, I got to hit them back. I was surrounded by boys my age, and most of them had pasts similar to mine. I made _friends_. 

“But, they don’t bloody well spend all those years training you, then offer you the _choice_ of participating in the Trials.

“First up, is the Trial of the Grasses. They tie you down and inject you with the witcher mutagens. Then you spend the next several days screaming and writhing in agony. Fever, delusions, vomiting and haemorrhaging. They just leave you there in your own filth until your body either adapts to survive, or you die, twisted, shriveled and deformed from the torture they just put you through. Three in ten is the official statistic, but only six out of the thirty boys in my group made it out alive.”

Jaskier’s eyes burn with unshed tears that no one else will ever spill for those poor boys.

“And then they start work on your eyes with The Trial of the Dreams. You see, they change shape and colour during the first trial, but our vision is shit. So, they _improve_ it. Make it so we can see better than your average human and can see in the dark. They make sure we’re sterilised while they’re at it. Most of us already were after the first Trial, but they have to make sure. Just one more choice taken away from us.

“I mean, I’d make a shit father and I can’t stand kids, but that should have been _my_ choice to make.”

Jaskier doesn’t believe that for a second. He wants to hold Lambert’s head under the water most days for the language he uses in front of Ciri, but even he cannot deny how _good_ Lambert is with her. He acts impatient and grumpy, but he’ll stay with her, repeating a move over and over again until she can do it well enough to satisfy them both. And while he dispenses with table manners himself, he always scolds her when she tries to eat with her elbows resting on the table.

Lambert would probably be a good enough father, maybe even a great one.

“Then,” Lambert continues, unaware of the complicated feelings in Jaskier’s heart, “If that weren’t enough, there’s the final Trial. A kind of test, where they send us further up into the mountains, where it’s full of monsters, and see if we’ve learned enough to make it back alive. I lost two more friends to that.”

“I’m…” Jaskier begins, voice thick with tears.

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” Lambert snaps. “I didn’t say all that for sympathy. I have a fucking point to make.

“The point is, that during all that, _no one_ ever stood up for me. No one thought to yell at the trainers that this wasn’t right. No one _cared_ that the training was brutal and deadly. None of us had a parent willing to fight the witchers for us. Most of us were given up without struggle or protest.”

He stares Jaskier straight in the eye, not making any attempt to hide his expression, his thoughts and feelings on full display. He is openly _admiring_ the River god.

“You did. You were willing to rain hell down upon us when we fucked up, because she’s _your_ daughter. 

“It doesn’t matter to you that she’s Geralt’s Child Surprise. As far as any witcher is concerned, that gives him more rights than you.” He laughs at Jaskier’s involuntary snarl. “But you’ll set them straight. You’ll protect her from anything. Even us.”

“Damn right!”

Lambert salutes him with the bottle and takes one more gulp before giving it to Jaskier to drain.

“You’re not too bad for a god,” he declares.

“You’re not too bad for an arsehole,” Jaskier shoots back. Not his best comeback, but that vodka was strong, and his head definitely feels a bit fuzzy.

Lambert roars with laughter as though Jaskier’s the greatest wit he’s ever met, so the witcher must be just as affected by the potent liquor.

“Can we go inside now, or are you still sulking?”

Jaskier hesitates, mind replaying the last thing he said to Geralt and guilt starts to gnaw at his insides, no doubt helped by the alcohol eroding his stomach lining.

He shouldn’t have accused Geralt of not caring for Ciri. He knows that isn’t true. 

Geralt is still a complete _idiot_ , and he still _lied_ (even if it was only by carelessness and omission) but Jaskier should not have thrown Geralt’s reluctance to tear a young princess away from her family in his face like that. Not in front of everyone.

“The others won’t give you a hard time,” Lambert assures him, misreading his reluctance. 

“Is Geralt there?”

“Nah, he skulked in about ten minutes before I came up here and went straight to his room.”

Jaskier nods and squares his jaw. He needs to talk to Geralt. Alone.

He gives Lambert a nod of thanks and makes his way apprehensively to his and Geralt’s room. He hesitates for a moment outside (should he knock?) before deciding he is being foolish and pushing the door open. 

Geralt is sitting in front of the fire, head bent studiously over his sword, whetstone gripped tightly in his right hand. Jaskier can see how white his knuckles are as the River god enters. Both of them remain stock still, neither sure how to break the impasse.

“Geralt,” Jaskier eventually breaks the silence. “Please look at me.”

The witcher shakes his head.

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier repeats.

Very slowly, with obvious reluctance, Geralt raises his head. The witcher looks haunted. Pain and regret are written into every line of his face. From the furrowed line of his brow to the stressed crinkles at the corner of his eyes and down to the pronounced frown lines marring his handsome mouth.

“I’m…” his voice cuts off and he is forced to cough, clearing his throat of the emotions clogging it. What idiots keep spouting that old ‘witchers don’t feel’ line? Feelings are overwhelming this particular witcher.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt chokes out.

“Me too,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt looks at him in shock, then shakes his head mulishly. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Jaskier. I’m the one-”

“Who loves _our_ daughter, and I should never have implied otherwise.”

“I hurt her, Geralt’s voice cracks, and any lingering anger Jaskier has been feeling dissipates in this moment. In the face of Geralt’s own self-loathing, he cannot bear to add any more to his witcher’s burden. He wants to shoulder his share and split Geralt’s heavy load between them.

He falls to his knees in front of his lover and gently sets Geralt’s sword to the side. He settles into the space left behind, between the witcher’s knees and reaches up to wind his arms around Geralt’s neck. The witcher is forced to bend forward to accept the embrace, as Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s jaw.

“You didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “And we caught it in time. She’s going to be _fine_.”

“I should have told you what we were feeding her.” Geralt is trembling against him.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t _think_. Those herbs were just what you ate at Kaer Morhen if you were training. I didn’t realise it was something I should have told you. I swear Jaskier, I didn’t know.”

Jaskier hushes him, unwinding one arm so he can cup Geralt’s face, stroking his thumb along the witcher’s cheekbone, Lambert’s tale of broken and bleeding boys still haunting him.

 _Of course,_ Geralt hadn’t seen an issue with what he did. He didn’t know what a normal childhood felt like; he had nothing to compare with his own brutal upbringing. Jaskier can’t help but imagine a small, vulnerable Geralt being strapped down, forced to mutate or die. No one fought for Geralt. Just as no one fought for Lambert.

“I love you,” he breathes into Geralt’s skin. He _needs_ his witcher to know this. Neither of them have said it before. They haven’t needed to. Geralt had willingly bound himself to Jaskier when he lured Jaskier into taking a swim with him in their river. It was a gesture that went beyond any words. 

But he needs to say it now. Needs Geralt to _hear_ his love. 

One of Geralt’s hands comes up to clasp the one against his face, anchoring Jaskier to him.

“You messed up,” Jaskier confirms, pulling his head away from Geralt’s jaw so they can look at each other. “But I still love you. And I know you love Ciri.”

Dry lips brush against his palm as Geralt turns his head. “Not just Ciri.” His words are muffled by Jaskier’s hand.

“I know,” Jaskier smiles at him, though Geralt can’t see it. His eyes are closed as he breathes in the scent of Jaskier’s skin.

Ina’s last words to him echo through the bard’s mind.

“Geralt,” he begins hesitantly. “Ina said something strange.”

An amber eye cracks open to peer at him incredulously. “You want to talk about your sister _now_?”

Jaskier flicks Geralt’s nose with his thumb and middle finger, enjoying the look of startled outrage this action earns him. Geralt almost looks _cute_ when Jaskier manages to surprise and bewilder him.

“She said I should ask you about the last conversation you had with her if I wanted to know… how much you love me.”

Geralt looks distinctly embarrassed. Jaskier is intrigued.

“Must I?” Geralt pleads, pulling Jaskier up and onto his lap. He wraps his arms around the bard’s waist and hides his face in Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Jaskier informs him emphatically.

Geralt sighs and begins unlacing Jaskier’s fur-lined winter doublet. It’s a good thing he does, because between the fire and Geralt’s unnaturally hot body, Jaskier is beginning to feel uncomfortably warm.

“It was after the mountain but before I found you in Lettenhove.” Jaskier nods and helps Geralt slide the doublet off his shoulders. The witcher raises his head only long enough to remove it, before burying his face back into Jaskier’s shirt. Sword-calloused fingers reach for his wrist and begin undoing the small fiddly buttons that prevent his sleeves from riding up his arms.

“I missed you, but I was still paranoid about my feelings. About what was real.”

Jaskier does his best to brush away the hurt that admission can still bring. Geralt worked it out eventually. That’s what matters.

“Your sister wasn’t impressed. She made me summarise what it was about you that I loved the most.”

Geralt’s managed to roll up his sleeve and is running his mouth up his arm, leaving ardent kisses in his wake. Jaskier scarcely dares to breathe. Geralt has proven himself to be surprisingly adept at physical affection, but words like the ones he’s speaking now are much more rare.

“What was your answer?” he prompts breathlessly, when Geralt does nothing but continue to press kisses to the inside of his elbow.

Geralt mumbles something against his skin that Jaskier _almost_ doesn’t make out.

“What?” he exclaims, wresting his arm from Geralt’s grip. “ _My forearms_? What’s so special about them? Surely my voice or my smile should be my most attractive feature. Lots of people have said so.”

“ _No_ !” Geralt growls, seizing back the arm he’d just lost and sucking a bruise onto the skin halfway up said forearm. “Those are for everyone to love. This,” he shakes the arm, “is _mine_ . You use these to look after _me_. No one else. I’m the only one you roll up your sleeves for!”

Jaskier is not sure he fully understands, but decides he will examine that declaration later, because Geralt has stood up, Jaskier still in his arms, and is moving towards the bed.

Jaskier is dropped onto the mattress with a soft thump and then Geralt is on him, kissing him hungrily as he rolls up the other sleeve of Jaskier’s shirt.

He pulls back suddenly, causing Jaskier to let out a pathetic whine of protest. But it’s only so he can divest himself of his own clothing, before yanking Jaskier’s boots, socks, trousers and underwear off with brutal efficiency. Jaskier tries to help, sitting up slightly and reaching an arm over his shoulder to yank his shirt off over his head, but Geralt’s hands are on his chest, pushing him back down.

“I want it left on,” the witcher confides, eyes burning as they take in the sight of Jaskier, flushed and panting, in only his shirt with the sleeves rolled up. 

Jaskier thinks he’s losing his mind because the next few moments are a blur of kisses and caresses. Somehow, Geralt must find the oil without him noticing, because Jaskier’s not aware of any kind of preparation going on until Geralt straddles him and, _oh fuck_ , sinks down onto him, leaving the River god to clutch the witcher’s hips for dear life. 

Geralt, his stoic, serious love, grins down at him like a schoolboy who’s successfully left an agitated frog trapped in the drawer of his least favourite teacher’s desk. His eyes sparkle with uncommon mischief as he grabs Jaskier’s wrists and pins them with one hand above Jaskier’s head.

Jaskier groans, fingers flexing automatically as he tries to get hold of any part of Geralt.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, and Geralt must be feeling at least slightly merciful, because he begins to move.

It’s safe to say Jaskier doesn’t last long. He can’t. Not when Geralt’s above him like this. _Riding him._ Jaskier is only a simple River god after all, and Geralt plays dirty (grinding down onto him with sinful twists of his hips and bending forwards to leave more bruises and bite marks all across Jaskier’s forearms).

Geralt doesn’t seem to mind (seems positively smug) as he brings himself to completion while Jaskier lies dazed and panting underneath him.

His shirt is _filthy_ , so Jaskier sees no problem in whipping it off to use as a rag to clean up the mess they’ve made. It saves one of them from having to go and get the wash basin.

Once they’re relatively clean, Jaskier settles down and wraps his arms tightly around Geralt, letting the witcher rest his ear against Jaskier’s still fast-beating heart.

“Alright,” Jaskier concedes. “I believe you. You really do love my forearms.”

“Mmm…” Geralt is practically purring as Jaskier’s hand automatically comes up to stroke his hair, fingers scratching lightly over his scalp. “Not just your arms. I love all of you, my Kingfisher.”

Jaskier’s heart swells with this admission, and he buries his face in Geralt’s hair as the witcher’s slow breathing lulls him to sleep.

Two hours later he is rudely awakened as the walls begin to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a soft spot for Lambert. He's grumpy, cynical and foul-mouthed, and I just want to give him a massive hug!
> 
> Feel free to come chat to me on [tumblr!](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange entity seems to know an awful lot about who Jaskier was...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little bit late guys. My fantastic beta, [Willowherb](willowherbgardens.tumblr.com), and I have been working on tidying up my [Geraskier Midsummer mini bang fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822391/chapters/60039028) and it pushed this chapter back a bit.

Geralt has heard this scream only once before, just over thirteen years ago, at a betrothal feast.

It’s ear-splitting, haemorrhage inducing and incredibly powerful! His brain feels like it’s trying to liquify and leak out of his ears.

There is only one person at the keep able to produce a scream like this.

Jaskier has fallen off the bed and, failing to stand, is crawling painfully slowly towards the door. Geralt forces himself to stumble out of bed, the pressure of the scream almost forcing him to his knees. He hauls Jaskier to his feet, and once he has the bard upright, they battle their way into the corridor. Ciri’s room is two doors down from their own, and only jagged splinters remain of the heavy wooden door that previously barred the entrance.

Eskel and Vesemir can be seen shakily emerging from their own rooms while the sound of doors being wrenched open behind Geralt signals the emergence of Lambert and Coën.

But it’s Jaskier who reaches Ciri’s doorway first and throws himself bodily inside. Tears are trickling down his cheeks with the effort required to stay standing, but he’s two steps ahead of his witcher who is struggling behind him.

Blood is beginning to drip from Geralt’s nose, and he can see the red trails dripping down the River god’s face.

Ciri lies asleep in her bed, trapped under a mass of blankets and furs that weigh her down, kicking and thrashing and screaming. She does not wake to Jaskier’s hoarse cries of her name. 

He falls next to her bed and grasps her by the shoulders, hauling her upright and shaking her roughly until her eyes snap open and fix upon him. 

The screaming stops.

There is none of the warmth in those eyes that Ciri usually displays when looking at Jaskier. They are cold, hard chips of emerald. Her lips curl in a mocking sneer.

“ _You’ve taken on a new form, Pankratz.”_

Geralt shudders. The voice is harsh. Inhuman. 

This is not Ciri speaking to them. 

He listens in sick fascination as the voice continues, poisonous words spewing from Ciri’s mouth. 

_“I remember watching you writhe and scream when they poisoned your waters. You begged me to release you from your torment and end your suffering._

_“Where was your_ _courage_ _then, Pankratz?”_

Jaskier’s mouth trembles. “I am not the Pankratz to whom you refer,” he tells the voice coldly.

_“Yes you are, little River god. You are the Pankratz. You are_ the _river. All it is and all it_ was _. You may not remember me, little godling, but I remember you. I can_ _see_ _you in whatever form you manifes_ _t._ _It is all the same to_ me! _”_

“Who are you? What are you doing in _my_ daughter?” Jaskier asks furiously, but the voice ignores him.

_“How does it feel to wear the rounded ears of your enemies, Oath Breaker?_

_“I was there when you went willingly into the river. Before the magic of your sacrifice brought power to its waters. You swore to rid the land of the human vermin invading your home. You failed_ _,_ _Oath Breaker. They poisoned you_ _,_ _and your former people lost their glorious war._

_“Now you have returned as one of those you_ hated _. Now you protect this_ human _princess.”_

Before Geralt’s eyes, Jaskier shifts. The tops of his ears become pointed, his hair lightens to a white blonde and grows until it hangs poker straight just above his shoulders. His face lengthens and becomes more angular, while his torso narrows to become even leaner. The only memorable feature remaining is his eyes, which remain the blue of his river on a sunny day.

Geralt’s seen this elf before. 

Only once and very briefly, when submerged in Jaskier’s river. He’d seen a flash of this figure overlay Jaskier’s usual image, just for a moment. 

The first god of the Pankratz. 

“Leave the girl be! I command you!”

Even his voice is different. Deeper and with different inflections and rhythms.

_“You have changed your tune, Oath Breaker. You would have cut her down like a diseased dog in the street when you were alive.”_

“Perhaps so. But I’m not who I once was. Now release her!”

Ciri slumps, going limp in Pankratz’s grasp, and falls calmly asleep once more.

Pankratz stands, and only now does Geralt realise neither he nor Jaskier had grabbed any clothes when they forced themselves out of their room. Both he and the River god are naked and while the god is not shivering, Geralt is beginning to.

Eskel cautiously enters the room and, never taking his eyes off Pankratz, he grabs a spare blanket from the chair by the door and drapes it over Geralt’s shoulders.

“Our charge is very special.” Pankratz gives Geralt a warm, loving smile. It is Jaskier’s smile, but on someone else’s face. It makes the witcher intensely uncomfortable.

“Where is Jaskier?” he demands. 

“He’s safe in here,” the elven man taps a long finger to his temple. “I had to force him back so that I could help the girl.”

“But you’re dead!”

“A river can never truly die while its waters continue to run. When you next see her, please give Mama my love.”

Pankratz lets out a full body shudder and his features morph back into Jaskier’s. The bard stumbles forward on his newly regained legs and Geralt lunges forward to catch him. Confused eyes search his face.

“Geralt? What happened?” Jaskier’s eyes widen. “Ciri!” he whirls back round towards the princess, but the young girl is breathing deeply in a peaceful sleep.

Jaskier spins back, looking deeply confused and still wobbly on his legs.

“Come on,” Geralt whispers urgently, tugging him to his chest so they’re both wrapped in the blanket. “Let’s get dressed and then we’ll go and get a hot drink.”

He catches Coën’s eye over Jaskier’s head and the other witcher nods understandingly and grabs Lambert by the arm and ushers the others away. 

When they enter their room, Jaskier sinks down onto their bed, looking lost.

“Geralt, what happened to me? That _thing_ was speaking through Ciri and then everything went fuzzy.”

Geralt’s tugging on clothes, trying not to look at Jaskier as he struggles to decide whether he should say anything to him about Pankratz. He doesn’t want to worry Jaskier. Not when he’s going to be worrying more than enough about Ciri.

“Geralt!” Jaskier sounds terrified. The witcher has taken too long to respond.

“You… changed. Into Pankratz. The first one.”

“But he’s dead!”

Geralt shrugs, unsure of what to say. He gathers up Jaskier’s trousers and kneels by the bed to tug his legs through them and up his hips. 

“Could it…” he wonders how he should phrase this and buys himself some time by pulling Jaskier’s shirt down over his head and helping him battle with the sleeves. Geralt looks wistfully at the marks he’d left on Jaskier’s pale skin, now covered up and hidden from view. It had turned into such a good evening.

Jaskier had told him he _loved_ him. Geralt had been able to say it back. 

“Is it possible a fragment of him remains? Almost like a shadow?”

“I don’t know.” Jaskier whispers, sounding very young and very frightened. “No one talks about the dead River gods.” His fingers pluck nervously at his clothes and Geralt grabs Jaskier’s lute and places it carefully into the god’s hands. Plucking on the strings always helps calm Jaskier down.

“We should go and join the others. We need to talk about Ciri.”

He grabs one of Jaskier’s hands, curling their fingers together, and leads the god, still clutching his lute, down to the kitchens.

Whatever the others have been discussing before their arrival is silenced the moment they hear Jaskier and Geralt’s footsteps. Two mugs of Vesemir’s homegrown mint tea are waiting for them.

“What the fuck was that?”

You can always trust Lambert to cut straight to the point during an awkward moment.

“Ciri’s mother, Princess Pavetta, had similar powers. It seems her daughter has inherited them.” Jaskier ignores his drink, plucking distractedly on his lute in a discordant manner. “She mentioned that they’d emerged during her escape from Cintra, but they’ve never appeared while she’s been with me.”

“This sort of thing is something we should have been told about before she made the whole keep shake,” Eskel growls at the bard, who ignores him, still focused on his lute. Geralt glares at his brother, but Eskel brushes it off with a roll of his shoulder.

“He’s telling us now,” Lambert interjects, which surprises Geralt. Lambert has been making snide comments about Jaskier ever since he arrived. 

“I don’t get it,” Coën interjects. “If she’s magic, how come she can’t manage any of the signs. I’ve tried teaching her Aard plenty of times, but she can’t manage a single puff of air.” He sees Jaskier’s stern glance and realises that trying to teach Ciri the witcher signs was absolutely something he should have run past her father first. He glances down guiltily.

“Perhaps her magic requires more finesse than the signs. They are very rudimentary,” Vesemir suggests, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Jaskier, could you teach her magic?”

The bard shakes his head wearily, setting his lute aside and leaning into Geralt’s side. The witcher wraps an arm around him and presses a kiss to the top of his head. 

“My magic is connected to my river and the worship I receive. Ciri’s magic is different. It’d be like trying to teach her to play the lute by using the bagpipes.” Jaskier grabs the tea, takes a sip and pulls a face. “Any chance we have something stronger?”

“I’ll get the ale,” Coën agrees readily.

“So, we need a mage then?” Eskel asks.

Jaskier stiffens and Geralt is suddenly hit with a flash of pain (right in the shoulder). He tries not to retch as the metallic taste and smell of blood fills his senses. 

“No,” he grinds out through gritted teeth before Jaskier can raise his own objections. “I don’t trust them.”

“I know some trustworthy ones. Well one… Triss Merigold is decent for a sorceress.” Eskel offers.

“I said no,” Geralt snarls. He feels sick, and he’s not sure how much of that is due to Jaskier’s feelings leaking through their bond, and how much is due to his own memories (Jaskier almost dead in his arms, vomiting black bile before vanishing into the river and away from Geralt). 

“No sorceresses,” Jaskier agrees firmly. He reaches a trembling hand across the table to grab an ale that Coën has just set down. 

“We’ve just agreed that none of us here have the skills required to help her control her magic!” Eskel protests. “We need a mage!”

He’s squaring up, readying himself for a fight, and Geralt is prepared to give him one. Eskel may be his favourite brother, but he does not understand the torment Geralt underwent when he wandered for months, unsure if he’d ever see Jaskier again. Unsure if he was even alive. Looking back, Geralt can admit he was already in love with Jaskier back then, though not even torture would have got him to admit it.

He will do anything to protect Jaskier from another sorceress. 

Triss, from the brief time he’d spent with her, seemed nice (lovely even), but how would that change when faced with the temptation of Jaskier and his power? He will not risk it, and he will not have Jaskier feel uncomfortable living here.

“There are some methods we can try before we have to seriously consider a mage,” Vesemir intervenes. “Meditation techniques and such. That’s with your permission of course,” he looks to Jaskier, the lesson they all received earlier well remembered. Jaskier nods his agreement.

“Fine,” Eskel concedes, then squints suspiciously at the River god. “So, what the hell happened to you?”

To Geralt’s shock, Eskel winces slightly as someone kicks him under the table. But it wasn’t him or Jaskier, and Coën and Vesemir are seated too far away from Eskel to reach. Which means it must be Lambert.

When has Lambert ever exercised diplomacy? Geralt is missing something.

“That was my dead brother… in a manner of speaking. More accurately, he’s a dead version of me.” Jaskier drains his ale and swings his lute back around in front of him, playing a slightly mournful tune.

“How so?” Vesemir has actually fished a piece of parchment out of his jerkin and is searching his pockets for a stick of charcoal. Geralt has never seen his mentor behaving so shamelessly. Even Eskel is looking embarrassed on the older witcher’s behalf.

Jaskier shrugs, pausing to tune one of the strings. “There was a god of the Pankratz before me. He fought against humans during the initial wars for territory, so they poisoned him. Then my grandfather drowned me in a river several hundreds of years later and I became the new Pankratz in his place. 

“I guess the two of us are not as separate as I thought. He’s never made his presence known before. Not to my knowledge.”

It’s said with a forced casualness that fools no one. Jaskier is upset by this development and does not wish to be questioned on it further. Unfortunately, Vesemir is too busy looking down at his notes to pick up on the subtleties of Jaskier’s expression.

“Fascinating. Has this happened to other Orisa? Are there others, like you, who are the new gods of a river with a previously deceased god? I wonder if it’s like a kind of subconscious, collective memory. Even though you weren’t born until much later, the fact that your river has been around so long may give you memories to the past spanning farther back than your actual existence. Perhaps we could test-”

“It’s late, old man,” Lambert complains. “Some of us would like to get back to bed before sunrise.”

“Yeah,” Coën agrees. “If Ciri’s still up for it, then I’m supposed to be running drills with her tomorrow morning. I’m going to head to bed.”

“Same,” Geralt grunts, and takes the opportunity to haul Jaskier to his feet and chivvy him out of the kitchen. “Good night,” he calls back over his shoulder.

He gets Jaskier back to their room and they sag together against the door in relief and exhaustion.

“Thank you,” Jaskier leans against him and tucks his head into the gap between Geralt’s shoulder and chin. 

“What for?”

“For coming to my defence when the others wanted to get a mage up here. For not suggesting Yennefer.”

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt vows. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Still,” Jaskier shifts his head to press a kiss to Geralt’s willing lips. “I appreciate it anyway.”

“I’m sorry about Eskel.” Geralt pauses briefly. “And Vesemir” he feels compelled to add. “I’ll just save time and apologise for everyone here.”

Jasker smirks. “Even Ciri?” 

“We’ve got months trapped in this keep together. I’m sure she’ll find some way to irritate you by the end.”

“No doubt. I’ve told her she’s got to attend lessons with me as well now. Wait until I try and explain the tax systems of various countries to her.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s classed as a form of torture,” Geralt tells him, glad he’s not required to take these lessons. As far as he’s aware, as a witcher, he’s tax exempt. 

“She’s going to need to consider such things. She wants to retake Cintra,” Jaskier confides in a hollow voice and dread begins creeping into Geralt’s heart. He may be teaching her how to fight and how to defend herself against a small group of armed opponents, but taking back a country is something else. That requires _war_. 

He doesn’t want Ciri on a battlefield, in the midst of thousands of bodies, all with swords and hacking at each other. He wants her _safe_. 

But Cintra is her birthright. Does he have the right to deny her the attempt to take it back?

“My thoughts exactly,” Jaskier smiles ruefully, inspecting Geralt’s agonised expression.

He gathers Jaskier closer to him, clinging on as he fears for the future.

“We’ll help her,” he promises Jaskier. “If that is what she wants, then we’ll make sure she lives to be the best queen Cintra’s ever seen. More valiant than Calanthe.”

“Wiser too,” Jaskier agrees. “More merciful as well. She’ll be magnificent.”

They stay leaning at the door for a little while longer, until the cold seeps from the stones and into their bones. They burrow under the bed covers together, wrapped in each other’s arms. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs sleepily. “You don’t need to apologise for your family. They’re not too bad I suppose.”

“Even Vesemir and Eskel?” Geralt has to check.

“Vesemir’s enthusiastic. It’s a little… tiring at times, but he’s been welcoming.

“And Eskel… loves you very much. I can appreciate that he wants you to be safe. We’re the same in that regard.”

“He’ll come round eventually,” Geralt promises.

“Mmmm…” Jaskier is already half asleep. “Course he will. I’m a delight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after three chapters of cliffhangers, I promise next chapter is going to be much fluffier! It may not be out this Friday though as I need to finish editing and posting my mini bang fic. If you fancy checking it out then the final two chapters of that should be posted this week.
> 
> Come say hello on [tumblr](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Midwinter! Time for a celebration!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So before you do anything you should check out [this](https://help-idontknowwhattodraw.tumblr.com/post/622968325486657536/im-not-done-hyping-up-dancinglassie-and-her) amazing piece of art done by the fabulous [Aro!](https://help-idontknowwhattodraw.tumblr.com/) It's so beautiful!
> 
> And thanks again to the wonderful [Willowherb.](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/)

Whatever unholy alliance Lambert and Jaskier have made, Geralt needs it to stop. For the sake of his sanity.

He takes back any wish he's made for Jaskier to get on better with his brother witchers. Jaskier and Lambert together are the stuff of nightmares.

They’re both loud. They’re both irreverent. 

And they both enjoy teasing Geralt.

Lambert will be sparring with Geralt and then, out of nowhere, break into a rowdy chorus of ‘Toss a Coin to your Witcher’ - including several verses Geralt had previously persuaded Jaskier should be omitted.

Lambert has also started showing Jaskier all the shortcuts and hidden passages around the keep, and they’ve made a game of trying to ambush Geralt at any opportunity. Jaskier’s yet to manage it, but there have been a couple of close calls and Geralt’s becoming increasingly twitchy.

Lambert sometimes joins them in the baths, usually with Coën tagging along. Seeing that Lambert has warmed to the River god, Coën has also become much friendlier, no longer concerned about making a wrong move in the Wolf keep by being too nice to Jaskier. Nine times out of ten, Geralt’s brother and his bard can persuade the Griffin witcher into taking part in a truly epic water fight. 

Jaskier, naturally, has an advantage over the other two, and they are often left red faced, panting and half drowned before they declare Jaskier the winner. Unfortunately, this means any hope Geralt has for a relaxing soak while cuddling his River god goes out the window, and he’s finding himself increasingly taking his baths alone.

Worst of all, Lambert has come up with an extremely irritating trick for Jaskier to play and, it’s stretching Geralt’s patience to the limit.

It goes like this.

Geralt, after a busy day of doing chores/hunting/training/teaching Ciri, will be taking a moment to relax with a well-earned ale. A long-anticipated treat if you will.

He gets to enjoy the first half of it without any issue but, at some point after this, when he goes to take a sip, the liquid never reaches his lips. It remains impossibly stuck to the bottom of the mug, no matter what angle he tilts it at. Sometimes it teases him, almost sliding down to touch his lips but remaining just short of flowing into his mouth.

There can be only one possible culprit and he’ll glare at the giggling Jaskier. That’s when the god releases whatever magic he’s using, and Geralt ends up with ale splashing over his upturned face, to the great amusement of Lambert, Coën and Ciri.

Geralt has now spent more than one evening hunting the keep for an unrepentant River god with too much free time on his hands. Ciri, his new favourite family member, will casually trip her Papa in the hall once she feels the chase has gone on long enough, allowing Geralt to scoop up his vanquished tormentor.

The punishment is delivered in the safe confines of their bedroom, appropriately muffled by the thick stone walls. 

Perhaps Geralt is not providing Jaskier with the best motivation to stop…

Eskel, unfortunately, is still wary. He watches Jaskier out of the corner of his eye and scowls when he sees Lambert and Jaskier trading jokes over cards, trying to outdo each other with outlandish stories. 

Still, the atmosphere around the keep is a lot more relaxed now Lambert has come round, and Geralt is begrudgingly grateful to his annoying younger brother.

Vesemir is more besotted than ever. Geralt is seriously concerned about his pseudo father figure trying to seduce his lover away from him. 

Not only is Jaskier a River deity full of mysterious power just waiting to be documented. But he is as passionate as Vesemir when it comes to insisting Ciri has a thorough grounding in theory and book learning too.

Vesemir may have been the best sword teacher Geralt ever had, but he’d also insisted that all the young trainees knew their bestiaries and lore. A sword would only do so much, he used to lecture, if you don’t know what weak spots to aim for. His insistence on making them study dry and dusty tomes from the library has saved Geralt more times than he can count.

But like Geralt in his youth, Ciri is not so impressed by all this studying. Not when there are swords to be swung outdoors. Before the argument with Jaskier in the training grounds, Vesemir had been fighting an uphill battle to extract the princess from her more lenient instructors and into the library to study.

Jaskier, when he’d learned this, instantly took Vesemir’s side. He’d threatened Ciri with cold baths and no swords if she didn’t apply herself just as diligently to her theoretical lessons as her sword fighting ones.

Ciri had come crying to Geralt about that.

“It’s so boring!” she had moaned, taking a particularly vicious jab at him which he easily sidestepped.

“You’re projecting your next move. You need to jab the sword before you move your feet. Otherwise, you’re practically telling me what your next move will be.”

She had scowled at him. “This is why I should spend more time out here with you!”

“No,” Geralt had refused to fall for that one. He knew which side his bread was buttered on. “Jaskier and Vesemir are right. Fighting will only take you so far. You can never rely only on the sword.”

“But Addelberd’s Bestiary is so dry! It’s boring me to death! And Jaskier’s making me study _maths_ ! I hate it! You have to help me. _Please Geralt!_ ”

Which is how he’s ended up attending some of Ciri’s lessons with her (though it soothes his ego when he realises Coën and Eskel have been duped into doing the same).

Jaskier, to be fair, is a good teacher. He’s enthusiastic, funny and doesn’t mind repeating himself in a variety of ways until the lesson sinks in. Geralt now has an annoying song stuck in his head listing all the past monarchs of Redania. 

But even Jaskier can’t make the differing forms of taxation employed by the Northern Kingdoms exciting. Geralt has found his head drooping on more than one occasion, and come back to consciousness only to be faced with Jaskier’s annoyed glare and Ciri’s giggles.

Today, however, there are no lessons or training of any kind. Even witchers take the opportunity to relax at Midwinter. 

They’ll use what little daylight they have to build a massive bonfire in the courtyard which they’ll light as the sun sets. A beacon to light up the longest night, as they keep vigil to ensure the sun comes up to illuminate the new year. Undoubtedly, it would do so without their vigil, but there is a comfort in waiting up to make sure that the sun _does_ come up over the horizon.

It’s usually a small celebration. Just Vesemir, Geralt, his brothers and whatever other witchers have decided to overwinter at Kaer Morhen. But this year, they also have Ciri and Jaskier.

“Happy holidays!” Trava booms as he bursts through the dining room doors, startling everyone in the middle of their breakfast. Behind him trail Ina, Vda, Adalette and Esther.

It appears Jaskier’s entire family will be joining them as well. 

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier splutters in disbelief. 

Trava strides towards him with long, confident steps, ignoring the raised hackles of Lambert, Eskel and Coën. He sweeps a squawking Jaskier into a rib cracking hug, smothering his baby brother’s protests against his broad chest.

“It’s Midwinter! Time for a celebration! And seeing as you couldn’t come to us, we’ve decided to come to you!” Trava winks at Ciri and the girl grins back at him. She strolls over to Trava to receive her own hug.

“It’s good to see you looking so well, Jaskier,” Adalette pipes up as she gracefully kisses her brother’s cheek. “You as well Geralt.” She surprises the witcher by coming over to give him his own kiss on the cheek.

“What a dreary looking ruin!” Lady Esther comments with her usual lack of tact, and Geralt can just sense a storm of décor criticisms coming his way.

“Better than that pink eyesore you call a drawing room,” Ina shoots at her sister. 

“The best tradesmen and designers on the Continent helped me refurbish that room!” Esther rounds on her sister.

“But you ignored all of them and threw out any tasteful suggestions they made.”

Vda steps between the two before the sisters can come to blows and eyes Geralt with an inscrutable expression. Geralt has an uncomfortable feeling that he’s being judged, and Jaskier is too busy trading banter with Trava to save him.

The other witchers have been left speechless but appear to be beginning to regain their faculties.

“This is Jaskier’s family,” Geralt begins introductions quickly before one of his brothers can put his foot in it. He can’t quite meet Eskel’s eye. The scarred witcher had been wary about powerful River deities being able to waltz into their secret keep whenever they liked, and Jaskier’s siblings had rather proved his point. Eskel does _not_ look happy.

Vesemir, on the other hand, looks like he’s in heaven. His only current problem is trying to decide which River god to accost first. He’s eying up the gently smiling Adalette with barely concealed relish.

Lambert and Coën are just sitting there, big grins on their faces, as they watch Trava mercilessly teasing his brother.

“You can’t just show up uninvited!” Jaskier complains loudly, trying to lift Ciri down from his brother’s shoulders. They deftly avoid him, and Ciri continues chattering excitedly to Vda about her training as the dryad River goddess listens with a mere hint of an indulgent smile.

Ina and Esther have sat down at the table, still bickering, and being eyed appreciatively by Coën and Lambert. 

Geralt really needs to step in there except, dear gods, Adalette has quietly gone over to shake hands with Vesemir and the older witcher has shaken it but not let go, so Geralt really needs to interrupt that as well. 

Except Geralt isn’t good at this sort of thing, which is why he has Jaskier. But Jaskier is still being distracted by his brother and hasn’t noticed the calamity occurring in front of Geralt’s eyes (which is the inevitable world ending explosion that will occur when a member of one of their families annoys someone from the other side).

Geralt’s died in his sleep and found himself in hell. There is no other explanation.

“I can if I bring Arlene’s moonshine with me!” Trava declares proudly

Geralt gives up (before, it should be said, even really trying). He’s had the moonshine before. If they all drink enough of it, no one will remember what potentially inflammatory remarks are made over the course of the evening.

“It doesn’t work like that! This is their _home_ . You can’t just barge in. It’s _rude_!”

Jaskier’s voice has reached a pitch it only achieves when he’s properly anxious and upset, but Geralt’s unsure what has distressed his River god so much. Surely, he should be happy to see his siblings again? He’d told Geralt a few nights ago how much he missed them.

“You waltz into my home whenever you like, and Geralt had the audacity to bleed all over it a few months ago. Least he can do is let me sit by his fire on a cold night. Especially when I have so generously brought the booze with me!”

“If they’ve brought drinks, then I vote they get to stay,” Lambert announces and Coën seconds this quickly. 

“My,” Esther bats her eyelashes at Lambert. “How generous and noble of you! I don’t suppose you would care to give me a tour of this fine establishment?”

Hadn’t she just referred to it as a ruin not five minutes before?

But Lambert has sprung up and offered her his arm, sweeping her from the room. Geralt cannot see this ending well. Lambert may be taken in by Esther’s pretty face and Esther may be appreciative of Lambert’s muscles, but Lambert’s going to want to claw his own ears off when the garrulous goddess of the river Ribbon really gets going.

Ina catches Geralt’s eye and there is a decidedly mischievous glint in it. It’s like she knows _exactly_ how this is going to play out and is looking forward to watching the fallout.

“How rude,” she drawls, and it almost sounds like her usual brisk tone, but Geralt thinks he’s beginning to pick up on Ina’s very subtle sense of humour and it turns out she’s as catty as her little brother. “They didn’t check to see if any of the rest of us wanted a tour.”

“Perhaps I could show the rest of you round?” Coën offers, almost shyly and Ina actually regards him with approval.

“That would be lovely,” Adalette pipes up, finally extracting her hand from Vesemir’s grasp. “Wouldn’t it Vda?” The dryad nods her agreement and Ciri swings down from Trava’s back to grab her hand. 

“I’ll come with you! I know almost all the secret passages now. Eskel’s been showing me!” The princess beams at the witcher in question and Eskel can’t help but give her a warm smile, despite his obvious misgivings.

“Don’t give away all our secrets, Cub,” he warns. “Geralt, we should get to work on the bonfire, or we’ll have nothing to light come sunset.”

Vesemir stands and voices his agreement. Geralt looks towards Jaskier, not really wanting to leave him, but now that they’re being left alone, Trava and Jaskier have calmed down. They’re still taking shots at each other, but it’s quieter now, less dramatic than when they were performing for an audience.

Geralt hesitates briefly before darting over. He gives an acknowledging nod to Trava and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s head which the god leans into.

“Be nice to your brother, Kingfisher,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s hair, just to hear his lover squawk, then goes to help with the bonfire.

* * *

Jaskier is pretty sure this is a scene directly out of his nightmares. His family and Geralt’s… mingling. Just when he thought he was making some headway with Geralt’s brothers. He and Lambert are getting on well now that the witcher has decided he’s trustworthy, and Coën’s a sweetheart.

He’s probably the most diligent of Jaskier’s ‘pupils’ and it turns out they share a love of literature. They’ve spent a few evenings debating classical literature; Ciri will sometimes join them and they’ll take turns reading chapters to her.

Eskel still doesn’t trust him, but Jaskier had thought that by the end of winter, with no unusual godly occurrences, the witcher would have warmed to him.

Now his family has _invaded_ and could _ruin_ everything!

“Come on,” Trava nudges him. “The last time I saw you, you were trapped in Lettenhove with Nilfgaardian spies slowly closing in on you. I thought you’d be looking happier now! You’ve got your daughter _and_ your witcher safe and sound.”

Jaskier lets out a long, tired sigh and heads over to sit down by the fire. 

“I _am_ happy that we got out. Things have just been a little… difficult.”

“I heard.” Trava sits opposite him. “Ina dropped by after her visit to complain about the ineptitude of witchers. But she did think it was purely accidental on their part.”

“It’s not just that. We’re not human, Trava, and they don’t know much about what we are. It makes them edgy.

“I just want them to like me,” he pleads.

Trava leans forward to clasp his shoulder, an understanding expression crossing his face. “And we might have ruined any progress by showing up without warning .” He grimaces. “I’m sorry Jaskier. We didn’t consider that. We just missed you. After Cintra… We’ve just been worried about you.”

“I know,” Jaskier whispers, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I missed you all too.”

“We are being maudlin,” Trava huffs, “but it is Midwinter, and we are all together! We should be happy! 

“I’ll make sure the others know to behave, and if any of the witchers gets out of line, I’ll summon the triplets to beat some sense into him!”

Jaskier can’t help but laugh, some of the stress leaving his tense frame. “Should we go find them or do you fancy your own tour?”

“They can find us here.” Trava reaches into his bag to pull out a bottle. “We can make a start on this and I’ll fill you in on all the gossip. One of Old Father Pontar’s daughters wants to join a Temple of Melitele to track down an acolyte gone astray, which is wrong on so many levels. And your druid and his lady love have moved into your house to help Eyck.”

“How are they all?” Jaskier is anxious for news on all three of them. He still feels bad that he wasn’t able to see Mousesack after the druid escaped capture, but he couldn’t risk hanging about after Geralt had found him and Ciri. The most important thing had been getting her to safety.

He also misses Eyck. Much more than he thought he would. The former knight can be overbearing on occasion, and to most of the world he comes across as pretentious, but that’s only one side of him. He’s loyal and he puts his whole heart into everything he does. He doesn’t know how to disguise his true thoughts and feelings, so when he looks at Jaskier as if the god holds the meaning of Eyck’s world in his hands, Jaskier knows his acolyte really believes it. It’s addicting and overwhelmingly humbling. 

“They’re all well. Kate calls Eyck her Duckling as he follows her to market like she’s a grand lady whose virtue he must protect. It’s a novelty for her; I think she likes it. And Mousesack is enjoying a bit of peace. He likes to sit on your dock and watch the water.

“You have a new dog as well. Princess Arabella.”

Jaskier chokes on his drink.

“Kate named her,” Trava laughs. “A grand name for a scruffy looking dog. She won’t answer to anything else.”

“What about ‘Your Highness’?”

“I haven’t tried that yet. I will next time I visit and I’ll report back to you.”

They laugh, and it’s nice. It’s a little bit of normal that he hasn't realised he’s been missing. He relaxes back into his chair completely and lets himself forget the past year. It’s just him and Trava, unwinding with fatally potent booze and chatting about everything and nothing. 

By the time Lambert comes skidding in, minus Etta, the two of them have moved onto a game of cards that mostly involves making up rules as they go along, and hitting each other’s hands away as they try to sneak unwanted cards into the other’s pile.

“Hide me from your crazy sister!” he demands.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier tells him loftily. “That is my _beloved_ sister you’re insulting.”

“She never stops talking! Does she even need air? I can’t take it anymore!”

Trava and Jaskier share a smirk at Lambert’s decidedly hunted look. They can all hear Etta’s footsteps echoing down the corridor towards them.

“Lambert,” she calls out. “Where are you? I have a few ideas for the keep that could really brighten this place up. Have you ever considered hosting a masquerade? You have a fantastic space if you’d just make the most of it!”

“Go,” Jaskier snorts with laughter. “Help your brothers with the bonfire; we’ll distract Etta.”

For now. Lambert’s on his own tonight.

* * *

Perhaps this isn’t so bad, Geralt reflects. Jaskier’s curled up next to him beside a blazing fire and they’re gazing up at the magnificent blanket of stars that twinkle like diamonds set against black velvet.

There are no explosions, no angry voices. Just good humour, laughter, and a lot of booze.

Ciri hasn’t even tried to sneak a drink of the moonshine, having far too much fun mock wrestling with Trava and Vda as the former entertains her with stories of his adventures. Adalette has considerately sat next to Vesemir, patiently answering all of the oldest witcher’s questions and subtly steering his conversation onto other matters. 

Even Eskel has managed to relax. The alcohol has made him loose-limbed and loose-tongued, and he’s getting a kick out of encouraging Esther to expand on her increasingly elaborate plans for Kaer Morhen. The look of horror on Lambert’s face as the goddess clutches his arm (squeezing the muscle appreciatively) is priceless.

Most surprising, perhaps, are Ina and Coën. The pair are sitting slightly apart from the rest and Ina is openly smiling at the witcher whose hands are gesticulating enthusiastically as he talks. Her cornrows, usually tied back tightly in a ponytail, are down and gleaming in the firelight. Geralt can see the sparkle of her gold earrings as she shakes her head with gentle laughter.

“This is nice.” Geralt tilts Jaskier’s face up with a finger under his chin so he can kiss his bard’s lips. 

“Mmm…” Jaskier is half asleep, happily slumped across him and with no intention of moving.

“May I join you,” a soft voice speaks up behind them.

A small albino woman stands behind them, a nervous smile on her lips.

“Gwen!” Jaskier jerks into full wakefulness and clambers to his feet to pull the woman into a warm hug. “Of course! I’m so happy you decided to come and join us.”

“It was nice to hear all the voices. It was like the old days.” 

Across the fire, Vesemir has frozen. He can’t take his eyes off Gwen and Geralt knows why.

He waits for Vesemir to get up. To come over and speak to the River goddess he’s hoped to meet for so long (ever since he placed his best friend’s body in her river so many years ago). But Vesemir doesn’t, and he’s displaying a certain vulnerability that unnerves Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t like it, so he gathers up his courage and turns to Gwen.

“It’s good to meet you,” he holds out a hand for her to shake. 

“You too. Jaskier speaks of you often. It’s very sweet.”

Jaskier blushes and Geralt grins smugly. He’ll revisit this with his lover later.

“May I introduce you to someone?” He offers her a courteous arm, just as he’s seen Jaskier do at numerous banquets, and escorts Gwen over to his mentor. Adalette catches his eye and, having sensed Vesemir’s distraction, she melts away to go and rescue Lambert from Esther’s clutches. Jaskier follows them curiously.

“Gwen, this is my old swords teacher, Vesemir. Vesemir, this is Gwen, the goddess of the Gwenllech.”

Vesemir scrambles to his feet and bows over Gwen’s hand, pressing a gentlemanly kiss to it. 

Gwen lets go of Geralt to grasp Vesemir’s hand in both of hers. 

“Pollux often talked about you,” she confides. “It feels almost as if I know you already.”

“He mentioned you constantly,” Vesemir’s voice is gruff and full of restrained emotion. “I know exactly how you feel.

“Please, have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”

She smiles as she sits down and Jaskier, still looking confused, hands over his full mug to Gwen. Geralt leads him away, letting Gwen and Vesemir have their space. 

“Play us something?” Geralt grabs Jaskier’s lute and presses it into his lover’s hands. If Jaskier plays then the others will focus on him, giving Vesemir and Gwen the privacy they need.

Jaskier seems to know what Geralt’s doing, but he doesn’t question it, for now. He strums a chord, frowning slightly before adjusting the pegs minutely. He strums again and smiles at the new sound. Even to Geralt’s rather excellent hearing, the difference between the two strums is minute.

The bard plays them a couple of songs, gathering the crowd towards him. His siblings are soon badgering him with requests and even Geralt’s brothers pipe up with a few suggestions. The gods and Ciri have no shame in singing along with the choruses they know, and Lambert and Coën are drunk enough to join in.

Geralt and Eskel stay silent, cannot be persuaded to raise their voices with the others, but both are smiling. It’s the most enjoyable Midwinter Geralt has ever experienced.

The laughter and chatter continue throughout the night, even as the sky begins to lighten and the fire dies down.

At last, the sun breaks above the horizon, illuminating the sky in glorious shades of orange that fade outwards into a soft pink. It is made all the more beautiful by the way it lights up Jaskier’s cheeks as he sits on the ground between Geralt’s knees.

Ciri has been unable to last the night and drifted off next to Vda who has a protective arm wrapped around her. 

“To a new year and whatever it may bring,” Trava intones solemnly from next to Geralt, clapping Jaskier on the shoulder. 

Lazily, everyone starts to heave themselves up, wishing each other a happy new year. Only Gwen and Vesemir are missing. They’d wandered off together towards the river a couple of hours ago. Geralt had pulled Eskel down when the witcher made to follow them. He’ll explain the situation to Eskel later today when there are no prying ears.

Ciri is handed over to Geralt, and she snuggles closer to his warmth but does not wake as the gods murmur their goodbyes and amble towards the river, leaving the witchers to head back to the keep. 

“Just got to check, Buttercup.” Lambert had been absolutely delighted when Adalette had let slip Jaskier’s childhood nickname. “Your sister usually stays by the Ribbon, right?”

“Etta likes to stay within her territory mostly, yes. Why? Are you planning a visit?”

“No! I just need to know that if I hear of any contracts in Brugge, I should just say no and go in the opposite direction!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave my boy Trava out of this fic for long! And Gwen and Vesemir finally met!
> 
> The monarch song Jaskier teaches Ciri is totally inspired by [Horrible Histories Monarch song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vC6okzIKQvg)
> 
> If you fancy saying hello, then you can find me on [tumblr!](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has a tough decision to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to post tomorrow, so have a chapter early!
> 
> A big thank you to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) who helped me at the last minute get this chapter ready!

It’s a hard decision. 

But Jaskier needs to leave Kaer Morhen, on his own, without Geralt and Ciri.

It has been a quiet three months since Midwinter and, like the snow, the earlier tension has all but disappeared. Eskel still isn’t his biggest fan, though the witcher at least seems to accept Jaskier’s place in Geralt’s life. And Ciri definitely occupies a secure place in the scarred witcher’s heart.

Which is why Jaskier’s glad that Eskel plans to stay at Kaer Morhen for a few more months, even though the pass down the mountain has cleared enough for travellers. 

Lambert and Coën had set off on the Path a week ago and Jaskier has desperately missed their cheerful presence. Kaer Morhen may have been on the large side for just the seven of them, yet it had never seemed as dank, dark and desolate as it did without those two. Jaskier is just praying he’ll see them both again next winter.

He knows Lambert plans to return mid-autumn to help progress Ciri’s training, and Coën has promised to turn up next winter as well, but the Path is full of dangers. Jaskier can’t help worrying. He wishes he could bind them both to him, put them under his protection, but neither had shown any desire to be tied to him in such a way. Jaskier knows better than to ask.

And while he can’t claim them, there are others on whom he’s left a mark. Others he’s not seen in too long.

Still, he dallies. He hems and haws and avoids discussing his worries with Geralt until the witcher corners him in their room one night demanding to know what has got into his River god.

“I need to leave,” Jaskier blurts out, forgetting all the carefully worded speeches and explanations he’s been composing in his head for the last few weeks. 

Geralt stiffens, and Jaskier hurries to explain before his witcher assumes the worst. 

“I need to check in on Eyck.”

Geralt relaxes slightly, and Jaskier takes that as permission to invade his lover’s space and wrap his arms around him. A soothing hand strokes up and down his back.

“So, you’ll just pop down to make sure he’s ok then come back up. It’ll be good to know he’s OK. Ciri will be happy to hear how he’s doing.”

Jaskier doesn’t relax; he knows the hard part of the conversation is coming up.

“You can travel using that secret, mystical River god trick. You’ll be back in less than a month.”

“I won’t be back until after Beltane,” Jaskier admits and he can feel the way Geralt goes rigid against him. The hand on his back stops abruptly, midmotion.

“That’s over two months.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt pulls away and his face is horrifyingly blank. Jaskier tries to pull Geralt back towards him, but he might as well have been trying to manoeuvre a witcher sized lump of stone. 

“Geralt, please!” he begs. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t need to, but I have an  _ obligation  _ to check up on Eyck. And Mousesack.”

“Your brother said they were fine.”

“But they’re not  _ his _ . Eyck is mine, and Mousesack is as good as.  _ I  _ need to see them.”

Geralt runs a tired hand over his face. “But why take so long? Ciri needs you. I need you.” The last is said in a whisper, almost as though Geralt is ashamed to admit to such a thing.

Jaskier surges forward to take Geralt’s face between his palms and tilt it down to press a firm kiss to his witcher’s lips.

“I want to visit Old Father Pontar. He’s… like me, the second incarnation of his river. Maybe he can shed some light on the condition I have… with my predecessor. If not him, then there are a couple of others in a similar position.”

Sword-calloused fingers stroke his cheek, and Jaskier knows he’s forgiven.

“Are you so very worried about Pankratz?” Geralt asks him softly.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier admits shakily (which is as good as a ‘yes’). “I’ve had flashes in the past. I’d go somewhere I’d never been and get a flash of recognition. Or I’d crave a food I’d never even heard of. But these were little things. I’ve never turned into him before.

“What does that mean Geralt? What does that say about who I am? How much of me is  _ me? _ ”

He is pulled into a strong chest, head bumping into Geralt’s chin.

“All of you is you, Jaskier. I  _ know  _ it. I love you, and I know you are you.”

They stay where they are for a moment, each breathing in the comforting scent of the other. 

“There’s no chance you could get back sooner?”

Jaskier shook his head. “I need to be with Mama for Beltane. That’s not an obligation I can forgo.”

This isn’t precisely true. Uncle Buina had extended an invitation for Jaskier to spend Beltane with him and his daughters, and in the past (while studying at Oxenfurt) Jaskier had spent Beltane with Old Father Pontar and his children. Uncle Buina had even offered to allow Geralt and Ciri to join him, but it wouldn’t be the same as going home to Mama.

And Jaskier is feeling… depleted. Stretched thin. 

He needs to regroup, gain his strength back. He needs to go back to the source of his magic and bask in the presence of his powerful mother. He needs to surround himself with his family and let them shelter him for a bit. Keep him safe.

“I’ll miss you,” Geralt admits, breath tickling against his forehead. “I know we’ve spent months apart before, but it’s different now.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

The rest of the evening is spent slowly memorising each other’s body, trying to etch every inch into their memories to keep them company in the coming months. And if the touches linger longer than usual, and the kisses become increasingly more tender, then neither mention it.

It’s only later, when they’re curled around each other in bed and drifting off to sleep that Geralt chooses to shatter the moment.

“You’re the one who’s going to have to break this to Ciri.”

* * *

Ciri does not take it well.

She looks at Jaskier with such anger and betrayal that the River god thinks it would be less painful to simply tear his heart from his chest and place it in front of her.

“You can’t!” she insists.

They’re by themselves in the small room he’s set up as her classroom when she has lessons with him. So, at least there won’t be an audience when she starts yelling at him.

“I _ need _ to,” he tells her seriously, already feeling exhausted by the conversation.

“NO!” she stamps her foot. “It’s not safe! Nilfgaard might get you! You need to stay here! With me!  _ You can’t leave me! _ ”

He feels like the lowest scum on earth. 

Ciri’s lip is trembling, and her eyes are becoming red-rimmed as she fights back tears.

“Ciri, I swear to you. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t  _ have  _ to.”

“Then don’t! Stay here with us. Why do you  _ have  _ to go? Geralt and I are  _ here _ . Isn’t that enough?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m not human, Ciri. I’m a River god, and as such there are certain things, certain ceremonies, I  _ cannot  _ break or deviate from. At Beltane, I  _ must  _ go replenish my power and pay homage to my mother.”

“Then tell her to come here! Uncle Vesemir won’t mind.”

“Mama can’t leave her river easily. She’s too tied to it. She can’t wander freely as her children can, so we must go to her.”

Ciri sniffs, and the tears she’s been holding back start to trickle down her cheeks.

“But it’s my birthday on Beltane,” she chokes out, voice weak and wobbly. “And it’s  _ our  _ day after that. There’s no way you’ll be able to get back up here in time for it if you’re all the way down south.”

She’s right, and Jaskier can feel his own eyes sting with the truth of it. Apart from that one year he’d spent unconscious and recovering from Yennefer’s dagger, he’s never once missed  _ their  _ day before. This will be the first year he’s ever consciously missed it, and he cannot think of anything to say in his defense at such a betrayal.

“I swear Ciri, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She nods, but the hug she returns when he wraps her in his arms is half-hearted.

He sets off two days later, still feeling tremendously guilty. Vesemir had seen his hesitation the night before he left and had taken him aside.

“You’re doing what you have to do for your family. Don’t beat yourself up over that. Sometimes we must make hard decisions in order to protect our loved ones. If spending Beltane with your mother offers you the best chance of protecting Ciri in the future, you’d be a fool not to take it, and I don’t think you’re a fool.”

Jaskier had been so overcome with emotion at these encouraging words that he’d dragged the surprised witcher into a desperate hug. Vesemir had awkwardly coughed over his shoulder, but still swung one arm up to pat Jaskier manfully on the back a couple of times.

“I’ll be back as soon after Beltane as I can possibly manage,” Jaskier had told him, letting Vesemir go and take a grateful step back. “Just… I know witchers don’t really care for birthdays, but Beltane is Ciri’s, so try and do something special. Even if it’s only a small thing. And the day after was always  _ our  _ day. It’s when I used to come and celebrate her birthday with her, seeing as I could never manage the actual day, so please just keep an eye on her then.”

“And don’t let Geralt brood too much in my absence or hide away his feelings. He can’t now he has Ciri. He needs to be open for her. Just… remind them I love them when they need it.”

Vesemir had looked distinctly uncomfortable with all this talk of emotions and feelings, but he had agreed.

“And if you need me, in an emergency, then just let Gwen know,” Jaskier had continued. “She can get a message to me.”

Jaskier had known that now that they had been officially introduced, Vesemir and Gwen had taken to meeting every couple of weeks down by the river. He didn’t know how they would classify their relationship, and he didn’t ask. Some things were meant to be private.

But, even with the pep talk from Vesemir and the genuine heartfelt hugs he had received from Ciri and Geralt that morning, he’s still sad to leave.

Kaer Morhen has begun to feel like home.

Gwen is waiting for him by the river.

“I’ll keep an eye on them for you,” she promises him, giving him a fond smile. “Give my love to your mother and siblings. My father sends his regards to you all. I’ll see you soon, Jaskier.”

He gives her a wobbly smile and steps into the water, wading in until it reaches his waist. He ducks under and allows himself to dissolve, drift apart and become one with the river as it rushes downstream.

Water can travel fast, but Jaskier can travel even faster as he flows from one water molecule to another, building up speed as he goes. It’s what allows him to move quickly upstream as well as downstream, going against the tide of rushing water, though admittedly it does require some concentration.

In a single day he has flowed down the Gwenllech, into the Buina and then up one of Buina’s tributaries, only to reform near Ban Glean. He’s planning to rest there for the night. In the morning he can pop into the Livel, a tributary of the Pontar and speed on his way to Oxenfurt to consult with the old river himself.

It is strange to be surrounded by the bustling crowds of a city after so long spent in the solitude of the Blue Mountains. Jaskier can’t help but bask in the busyness. He’s missed this! All these humans shouting and yelling at each other as they navigate their brief mortal lives. The huge range of emotions they can express with a single glance. How  _ alive  _ they all are!

Completely extraordinary!

He heads to one of the classier inns. Trava had given him a fat coin purse at midwinter, and Jaskier wants to be seen as having done well for himself. He wants people to speculate about which court he might possibly have spent the winter in in order to generate so much coin. He hopes it will quell any rumours that he might have been spending the cold months with a certain witcher and a missing princess.

All it takes is a flash of a smile and the innkeeper is delighted to offer Jaskier his best room and a chance to perform that evening. He heads up to change and reappears in a new doublet with matching trousers (a Midwinter gift from Mama his siblings had brought with them). It’s green silk with gold leaves delicately stitched up the arms and legs and Jaskier can’t help but preen under the admiring gazes of the patrons.

He’s missed performing. The small audience at Kaer Morhen had been appreciative, but it was nothing compared to the rowdy applause of this crowd. He dances across the floor, occasionally being hoisted onto tables to nimbly exchange a few light-footed steps with a pretty maid as he sings her praises to the room. 

By the time he’s finished his set, shooed away the hopeful admirers and set himself up with a hearty dinner and a mug of ale, he’s in a very good mood. The innkeeper’s daughter had thoughtfully gathered up all the coins thrown at the stage for him and deposited them at his table with a blush and a smile.

The only thing missing is a grumpy witcher and a ferocious princess.

He doesn’t know why he suddenly tenses when the door to the inn bangs open behind him. He isn’t sure what sense alerts him to the identity of the new arrival. He just knows that fear has frozen his spine even as his heart hammers in his chest.

It takes every ounce of acting and control he possesses to smooth his features into nonchalant indifference and turn to face the newcomer.

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the familiar figure. 

Violet eyes glare back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dun, dun, dun!](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/post/623827922162270209/withered-rose-with-thorns-i-dont-owe-you-a)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer and Jaskier meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks again to my beta reader [Willowherb.](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/)

Yennefer saunters over towards him and settles gracefully into the seat opposite, as though they aren’t sworn enemies. The familiar scent of lilacs and gooseberries wafts across the table towards him, curdling his stomach. A glass of wine is almost immediately placed in front of her and Jaskier’s hands itch to grab it and throw it in her face.

He grits his teeth, keeps his posture relaxed and refuses to show her the fear that courses through him whenever she’s in his presence. 

It occurs to him that this is the first time since that room in Rinde that they’ve ever been alone. Normally, Geralt is there to act as a buffer. Jaskier desperately wishes the witcher were here now. He feels like a turtle missing its protective shell. Horrifically vulnerable.

“The bonds of Destiny have pulled us close together once more,” she comments with a sly smile, taking a sip of her wine.

“I don’t recall inviting you to join me,” he answers coolly.

Yennefer lets out a snort, carelessly brushing her long dark hair over her shoulder.

“As if you could stop me,” she grins at him, baring her teeth, always the predator. “Come now, Jaskier, we’re on the same side this time after all. It’s time to leave our quarrels in the past.”

He wants to snarl at her. He wants to dig his fingers into those violet eyes and hold her head under the water of the nearby river.

_ Quarrel? _ She wants to call her almost murdering him, sucking all the magic from him, and his justifiable anger ever since, a  _ quarrel _ ? He’ll show her a quarrel!

“And what side would that be?”

“Both of us had our choices taken away when  _ Geralt _ used his stupid wish to bind us to him! We’ve both been  _ enslaved _ to him by the djinn. And he kept that from us! For years! How are we to trust our feelings towards him when we can’t discern what’s real and what might have been created by that fucking djinn?”

Jaskier is stunned.

Does she honestly think he’ll side with  _ her?  _ Against Geralt?  _ His _ witcher?

“There has to be a way we can break this, Jaskier.” Yennefer stretches out a hand, not to grasp his (she’s no fool) but to place it within his reach on the table. Her knuckles are covered in faint, shiny scars; he notices but doesn’t comment on them. “We’re both powerful and between us we have all the knowledge of the mages and the Orisa at hand. We can be  _ free _ .”

Ahh… he gets it now. 

She’s been unable to break this bond they share with Geralt on her own and so has sought him out to do it for her. After all, she’s experienced first hand how powerful his family is. 

This explains why she’s being uncharacteristically civil towards him.

There’s just one… well, several issues.

“I know what I feel for him is real. I don’t  _ want _ to be unbound from him.”

Yennefer’s eyebrows draw together, startled.

“But you can’t know they’re real,” she explains slowly, as though explaining the matter to a particularly thick toddler. “The wish disguises any true feelings we might have. That’s the point of the wish.”

He scowls at her. She doesn’t have a clue what she’s talking about.

“You may only have decided to try and fuck him after the wish (which I seriously doubt, I heard about that bath you decided to take with him), but I knew I  _ loved  _ him long before we ever had the misfortune to cross your path.”

And perhaps that’s the crux of it. Jaskier’s feelings didn’t change after the djinn bound him to Geralt. There was no rush of instant attraction because the attraction was already there. The burning infatuation of a new love had long since simmered down into deep rooted intimacy and affection. 

He hadn’t suddenly met Geralt, fallen uncharacteristically in lust with the witcher, then subsequently discovered that a djinn’s spell might be at play. Though Jaskier seriously doubts that Yennefer’s feelings have anything to do with the wish. 

Geralt had presented himself to her, in all his muscled glory, offering her two powerful elemental entities to play with (mostly due to his own ignorance). Beauty, strength and foolishness paired with a strange kind of vulnerability that Jaskier strongly suspects matches the witch’s own. How could a woman like Yennefer resist that? 

“Watch your tone, bard, I saved your life from that djinn after all,” Yennefer sneers at him. All pretence of civility is melting away, their faces turning uglier with each passing remark.

“And then you almost ended it. Don’t play the heroine with me, Yennefer. You only saved me because of your own selfish desire to harness the power I possess for your own ends.”

Her eyes narrow and the hand she left on the table twitches, even as she tries to prevent herself from curling it into a fist.

“Don’t pretend you’re so selfless!” Yennefer spits. “I’ve  _ seen  _ you flaunting your power. Wherever you go people fall over themselves to accommodate you. You smile your smiles, put them under your spell and you  _ use  _ them,  _ manipulate  _ them, just as I do. Just because I don’t deny what I do, doesn’t make me any worse than you!”

“I don’t stab people then try to fuck their friend as they lie dying not ten feet away!”

“What are you madder about? That I tried to gain your power, or that the love of your life wanted to fuck me before he ever thought of desiring you?”

Jaskier tries not to flinch. He fails.

Because that is still a sore point for him.

That Geralt seems to have desired Yennefer first makes his shoulders come up defensively as he tries to brush it off; tell himself that it doesn’t hurt.

The witch has a knack for zeroing in on his vulnerable spots.

“What makes you madder?” he asks with false sweetness. “Cold baths forever or the knowledge that the thing you were willing to sacrifice everything for will now always remain out of your reach?”

She slaps him. Hard. The cool metal of her silver rings catches his cheekbone and drags a cruel red line across his face.

“How dare you,” she seethes, pale and trembling.

He cannot find within him an iota of sympathy for her.

“Do that again and I will drown you where you stand,” he answers coldly. He swipes a hand across his cheek and notes with some detachment that at least she hasn’t drawn blood. 

“You made your own bed, Yennefer,” his lips curl derisively. “So lie in it.  _ You _ tried to capture a River god; you failed and were punished.  _ You _ tried to tame an angry djinn and almost killed the three of us in the attempt. Don’t cry to  _ me  _ because you don’t like the consequences when Geralt tried to  _ save  _ us.

“I may  _ loathe  _ being bound to you, but I’ll not blame him for trying to do what he thought was the right thing.”

Her expression is schooled, trying to appear in control and unruffled. She raises her wine glass to her lips to take a sip.

“The next time I see Geralt,” she muses. “I’m going to fuck him into the mattress and tell you all about it.”

He can’t help it. He laughs.

“You try that Yennefer. I’ll make sure you have a glass of your favourite wine when you fail. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to commiserate with you as I’ll be too busy making love to  _ my  _ witcher.”

A hot curl of satisfaction unfurls in his stomach at the sight of her shock.

He hadn’t planned on revealing that he’s seen Geralt since the Dragon Hunt, but he can’t regret it. Not when the witch sits in front of him glaring at him with what he thinks is just a touch of jealousy.

“When did you see him?” she demands. “I heard you left him on that damned mountain. We  _ both  _ walked away from him as he deserved. Are you so weak that you’ve gone crawling back to him begging for scraps of his affection?”

“What can I say?” he returns coolly. “When a handsome man has spent months tracking me down and turns up on my doorstep begging for love and forgiveness, I am helpless to deny him. He apologised so nicely for accidentally trapping me to a heinous sorceress.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” she asks in a bored manner. “We are both powerful, immortal beings. What’s a little stabbing between us? We have nothing but time to spare. We can quarrel, make up, and betray each other, in turn, a hundred times over.”

“Make up? You’ve never apologised for the crime in the first place! How do you expect me to forgive you when you’ve never shown any remorse for your actions, apart from the fallout that has inconvenienced  _ you _ ?”

“Don’t be so naïve, Orisa. Creatures like us don’t apologise. We don’t display our weaknesses so blatantly for others to take advantage of.”

Jaskier scoffs. “If that’s your view of the world, no wonder you’re so sour.”

“And you’re a simpleton! Not all of us grew up with a loving family to protect us. Some of us learned early on what it was like to be shunned, simply for being different. We learned that the only person we can rely on, who always has our back, is ourself.

“I cannot be sorry for being what the world taught me to be, so do not hold your breath waiting for my apology. Ditch your rose coloured view of the world and learn what it’s like for everyone else.”

Jaskier can feel the heat rise in his cheeks as a new flare of anger licks up his spine.

“Don’t play the terrible childhood card with me! You had a rotten family? Fine. But don’t try and use that as an excuse as to why you feel it was perfectly acceptable to torture me with iron, drain me of what I am, almost kill me, and then brush it off as though you’d simply insulted my brother after one drink too many!

“You want to compare bad beginnings? My own grandfather drowned me when I wasn’t even an hour old, before murdering my mother, his only daughter. I may have grown up with a new family who loved and protected me, but I’ve never forgotten that moment of going under. The ice-cold water surrounding me as my lungs burned in desperation for air.”

Silence falls as they stare, seething, at each other. Neither willing to give an inch.

The moment is only broken by a waitress who comes over to ask if they want a top up. The girl is obviously tired after a busy day and oblivious to the tension simmering between the two of them.

“That would be lovely,” Yennefer acknowledges the girl with a curt dip of her head, and Jaskier nods his agreement.

Yennefer taps the table with her fingers, lips pursed as she stares over Jaskier’s shoulder, contemplating something. When a bottle of the inn’s finest wine and two new glasses are set down on the table between them, her lips quirk into a wry smile.

“Was that down to you or me?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Could be either of us, possibly both. I imagine the two of us together project quite an atmosphere.”

He pours the wine and they drink the first glass silently, not looking at each other.

“Do you really not care that he bound us to him? That he deceived us? Took away our choice?”

Jaskier fortifies himself with a second glass of wine. 

“The binding? Easy enough to forgive. I wanted to tie us together before the djinn. I am a River god; it’s in my nature to seek to bind those I care for to me forever. It’s not how I wanted us to be bound, but that was easily fixed when he came to my river.”

“And the deception?” she asks sharply.

“Harder to forgive,” he acknowledges. “But I love him enough to do so. Think of it this way, Yennefer. The fact that you haven’t already forgiven him for it, shows at least that a djinn’s curse is no match for your will.”

Her smile displays her clenched teeth.

“And am I to expect him to be joining us soon?”

“No, we’ve parted ways for now.”

He may be imagining it, but he thinks he detects relief in her expression.

He has no desire to spend any more time in her company, so he stands up, intending to leave her to the rest of the bottle and head to bed.

“Jaskier.” Her voice stops him before he can turn to walk away. “Nilfgaard is searching for him. The rumours say he spirited Queen Calanthe’s granddaughter out of Cintra while the city burned. The Nilgaardians want that child, and I dare say it’s not for anything either of us would consider pleasant.”

He is silent, but his silence seems to betray too much, because Yennefer inhales sharply as the pieces of the puzzle she’s been trying to figure out slot into place.

“So, she  _ is  _ Geralt’s Child Surprise then? I had wondered.”

“Tell anyone,” he threatens, and it’s an effort to keep his voice from shaking with fear for Ciri, “and I’ll make my family seem merciful by comparison.”

She doesn’t acknowledge his threat but plays with her hair and tugs it while she thinks. 

“I’m guessing he’s with her then. Somewhere hidden and safe. That’s good. If Nilfgaard gets hold of him, then there’s very little they wouldn’t do to make him give her up.”

Jaskier can’t help the shudder that courses through him as he imagines the sort of torture the Nilgaardians might stoop to if they caught his witcher.

“I’ll start some rumours that I saw him on his own as I came through Redania,” Yennefer muses, surprising him. “Perhaps you might consider mentioning how you saw him last on his own in Aerdin, or perhaps Temaria. That ought to confuse people enough, initially.”

He nods curtly, mind still filled with images of dark cells and sharp implements.

“Goodnight, Yennefer.” He does not bow, as would be polite, but she does not expect that from him.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

It is only much later, as he lies in bed, unable to sleep and missing the warm body he’s grown accustomed to having at his back, that he realises that by the end of his conversation with Yennefer, he had quite forgotten to be afraid of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that meeting was satisfying for everyone! I'm always slightly scared of writing Yennefer in a way that does the character justice. [Especially as I've always had a slightly rocky relationship with her.](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/post/621257661199106048/yennefer-is-such-a-fascinating-character-ive)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier spends some time in Oxenfurt and meets someone who looks rather familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks once again to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for being the best beta-reader an author could hope for!

“Jaskier!” Old Father Pontar embraces him. The River god remembers when he thought the older River was a giant. A tall, mighty figure. Now he marvels that he ever thought so. The top of the old man’s head only reaches Jaskier’s chin. It seems so strange that this tiny man positively thrums with restrained power.

Jaskier lets out a long-held breath and relaxes into the arms of the only father he’s ever really known. A hand subconsciously curls around one of the long wisps of the old man’s moustache and he has to stop himself from giving it a comforting tug.

“Sit, sit,” Old Father Pontar shoos him towards the fire where two old armchairs are arranged, angled towards the flames. They’ve been there for as long as Jaskier can remember and it always surprises him, when he sinks down, that no cloud of dust is emitted.

“I’ve arranged for tea to be sent up and yesterday I received a rather delicious fruit loaf.”

Jaskier is handed a toasting fork with a slice of said bread on the end, and he dutifully toasts it over the fire as he tells Old Father Pontar all about his winter in Kaer Morhen.

“I am glad that you and your witcher have worked things out. Your mother sent me many worried letters about you after that unpleasant business with Sir Braa and the mountain. But I remembered when you brought the witcher to Oxenfurt many years ago.

“I didn’t doubt that he would eventually be brave enough to return your feelings. I have a good eye for these things. 

“I tried to persuade your mother to give him one more chance. I’m very happy to hear that she decided not to kill him. It would have been a great shame.” 

Jaskier can’t help but agree as he pulls his slice of toasted fruit bread away from the fire to slather it in butter. The door opens and a strangely familiar man steps through, carrying a tea tray. 

“The kitchens insisted on sending up some of those jam tarts you like so much, sir,” the man beams at them as he sets the tea tray down on the small table by Old Father Pontar and sets to pouring the two gods a cup of fragrant herbal tea.

Jaskier is desperately trying to remember where he’s seen this man before.

“I think I have you to thank for my newest acolyte,” Old Father Pontar smiles gently at him. “Osmond says it was you who helped him with his entry into Oxenfurt Academy.”

Osmond looks toward Jaskier and smiles shyly at him, squirming nervously where he stands. Jaskier blinks at him for a few moments and then that bashful smile triggers a memory and he has it!

Osmond had been the bandit boy with a secret love for botany! The one for whom he’d written a recommendation letter to the scholarship committee at Oxenfurt Academy. The boy he’d almost been tempted to make his own acolyte!

It’d been back when he’d started travelling with Geralt, before the witcher knew what he was. Geralt had gone to gather wood for their fire while he set up camp. 

It’s hard to say who had been more shocked. Jaskier, when the bandits had leapt out from the trees, or the bandits when Jaskier’s usually tight control on his powers had slipped and they got a quick flash of  _ Jaskier _ .

They’d crowded around him on their knees, trying to brush their hands against his legs as they grovelled for forgiveness. It’d taken Jaskier a good ten minutes to calm everyone down, and they’d sat around him on the ground, listening to his stories with the same rapt wonderment as toddlers spellbound by village storytellers. 

Geralt had come bursting through the greenery, looking frantic and with his sword drawn, halfway through the third tale. Perhaps if Geralt had thought to question the odd scene before him, he might have discovered Jaskier’s true nature rather earlier, but the witcher had an annoying habit of not asking pertinent questions unless it concerned monster hunting. 

Jaskier strongly suspected it was because as a self-described ‘mutant’, Geralt didn’t believe he had the right to question people about anything not work related. Didn’t want to frighten or intimidate them. It was something Jaskier would have to work on with him in the future.

Osmond had been one of the youngest of the bandits. He’d fallen particularly hard under Jaskier’s spell, sitting as close to his feet as possible and eagerly waiting for any scrap of attention Jaskier might throw his way. It wasn’t hard to get the boy to spill his life story.

His father had been a soldier who’d died when Osmond was very young and his mother had died of plague shortly afterwards. There’d been an older brother who’d tried so hard to make ends meet and put food on the table, and a greedy landlord who had shown no leniency towards the grieving brothers and had kicked them out the family cottage with nothing but the clothes on their backs. 

No wonder they’d turned to the company of bandits who haunted the woods. 

It had been a shame though. Osmond had looked so young and so thin. Unlike his burly brother and his burly mates, the boy looked like a strong wind might blow him away. He was so bright as well.

Geralt had been persuaded into a reluctant conversation with Osmond about botany, and Jaskier had watched as the boy transformed before his eyes into an eager, smiling pupil as Geralt explained some of his witcher concoctions and the brewing process required.

The River god had very carefully peered into Osmond’s heart and found it ready and willing to accept and follow Jaskier. He’d been so very tempted to make his first acolyte there and then, but the thought of Geralt’s potential reaction had stayed his hand. 

Instead he had decided to offer another way out to young Osmond. A new life. One that didn’t end with him slain in a ditch or hanged before a jeering crowd. He’d written a personal letter of recommendation to the Oxenfurt Academy’s scholarship council and taken the boy’s brother aside to persuade him to ensure that Osmond made the most of this opportunity.

It appears Osmond had!

He’s looking good as well! Now a tall man with a neat moustache and beard. He’s filled out a bit, no longer looking one missed meal away from the grave. The eyes are the same though (except, perhaps, a few wrinkles in the corners). Hazel, wide and filled with awe as Jaskier enthusiastically shakes his hand and plies him with questions about the twenty years since they last met.

Old Father Pontar smiles indulgently at them, quietly sipping his tea.

Osmond, being one of the few students to enter Oxenfurt on a scholarship rather than having parents to pay his way, had found himself having to work three times as hard as everyone else to prove that he belonged. This led to long days and nights spent in the library.

Apparently, from the moment he first crossed its threshold, Osmond could sense there was something more to this library than first met the eye. One night he’d been brave enough to slip up the stairs to the tower no one ever entered. The one to which most at the university seemed to bow as they passed, without even registering what they were doing. Old Father Pontar had been waiting for him at the top, looking out of the window that faced his river.

He’d instantly put Osmond at ease and the young student had spent many nights sneaking up to the tower to talk to the old god, seeking his help with classes, with his peers, with his distancing relationship with his brother. 

By the time Osmond had graduated, it was clear to him that he never wanted to leave. That he planned to spend the rest of his life at Oxenfurt, learning all he could, teaching what he knew and serving the god whose river his rooms overlooked.

He doesn’t hesitate to thank Jaskier incessantly for helping him find his life’s purpose. Jaskier is feeling uncharacteristically embarrassed, especially when Old Father Pontar joins in with the thanks. It almost completely distracts him from the entire point of his visit.

It’s only as Osmond bustles out to teach a class and there is a lull in the conversation that Jaskier is able to gather up his nerves to broach the topic for which he’s travelled all this way.

“Father,” he hesitates. 

It’s not an honorific he often uses for the old god. After all, the Pankratz does not flow into the Pontar. He’d been scolded by Ina when he was a child for referring to the old man as such. It had upset him greatly. Old Father Pontar had waited until Ina had left them alone in the room, hoisted the sniffling Jaskier onto his knee and wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve, pulling silly faces at the small boy until he giggled.

“I do not mind, Buttercup,” he had assured Jaskier. “I am honoured you think of me as such. You can call me that when it’s just the two of us.”

“Speak up lad,” the old god chided gently from his chair. “You only call me that now when there’s something very serious you wish to discuss.”

But it’s not that easy. The dead River gods is a taboo subject. When they must be spoken of, it’s with lowered eyes and in whispers. No one likes coming face to face with their own vulnerability, especially not beings who consider themselves immortal.

“Something happened over winter and I need your advice.

“Something… took over Ciri. I don’t know what it was but looking into her eyes when that  _ thing  _ was controlling her was like looking into an endless abyss. 

“It called me Pankratz. It spoke to me as if I were… my brother.” He almost said ‘as if he were the former version of me’ but switched to a more tactful description at the last second. Old Father Pontar is already looking harrowed, his old face crumbling with grief.

“And looking into its eyes, I thought I saw Pankratz reflected back,” he forces himself to continue. “Then it went dark and I came to… Geralt says I turned into him.”

He trails off, hoping that Old Father Pontar has understood enough to prevent Jaskier actually having to ask the question he wants answered.

“I still miss my dead children,” the River eventually speaks from behind a frail hand clasped over his eyes. “Even though I never knew them. Even though I only became the Pontar many years after they’d been slaughtered. I’ve never known their smiles, but I see them in my dreams.”

Jaskier’s mouth is dry. He isn’t sure if this is the answer he wished to receive or not. On the one hand, he is not alone in this. Another of his kind is haunted by the lingering shadow of their predecessor. On the other, it confirms what he’s feared. That he is not  _ solely  _ Jaskier. Bits of the old Pankratz have folded themselves into the existence of the new one.

What’s to stop the old from taking over the new?

Old Father Pontar gazes at him sympathetically. 

“But you’ve… never lost time?” Jaskier has to check.

“Oh certainly, after one too many ales. But to my knowledge, I’ve never changed appearance or character when doing so.”

Jaskier just nods, a hot, tight lump lodging itself in his throat as he fights back frustrated tears. This isn’t  _ fair _ . Why is this happening to him?

“Right,” he does his best to pull himself together. “I guess I’ll just have to… see what happens.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the answers you’re looking for, but your mother is older than me; perhaps she could-”

“No!” Jaskier interrupts. “I don’t want to upset her with this.”

“She’s your mother, Jaskier,” the old River god leans forward to place calming fingers on Jaskier’s knee. The skin across the fine boned hand is thin and marked with dark age spots. Old Father Pontar was old when he gave himself to the river and, as far as Jaskier is aware, he’s never once aged himself back to his youth. He is content to lure those he meets into a false sense of security with his fragile frame. 

Mama’s the same in a way, but the façade is different. She hides her power behind beautiful smiles and gentle touches.

It would be very easy to forget that the two of them are the most powerful beings Jaskier knows.

He very rarely forgets this, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to protect his mother from the pain this revelation might cause her.

_ ‘And what,’ _ a treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispers,  _ ‘if she prefers having her first son back over you?’ _

Jaskier can’t stop the shudder that runs through his anxious frame at that thought.

“Where will you go next?” Old Father Pontar is kind enough to change the subject.

“Lettenhove.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you’d got yourself an acolyte since I saw you last. Off to check on him and your orphanage?”

_ His what? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time Jaskier returns to Lettenhove!
> 
> If you're trying to remember where you've heard of Osmond before, he's the bandit boy from all the way back in [Chapter 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956247/chapters/54929515#workskin) of Kingdoms Come and Kingdoms Go, Rivers Run and Rivers Flow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier returns to Lettenhove!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this chapter.

Eyck is waiting for Jaskier with a towel as the River god pulls himself out of the water and onto the dock. 

Jaskier hadn’t told anyone he was coming, too scared what any message might give away if intercepted, but something about his connection to his acolyte must have given Eyck the prompt he needed to get out of bed in the middle of the night to meet him.

The god ignores the towel and folds his acolyte into his arms; the relief at seeing Eyck well and unharmed is overwhelming. The former knight stiffens in surprise but then relaxes into the embrace, squeezing Jaskier tightly. 

“Welcome back, my lord,” Eyck greets him formally when he is released, but Jaskier can read the genuine joy in his face.

“It’s good to see you,” Jaskier claps him on the shoulder, beaming. “I hear that I now own an orphanage.”

“Lady Kate assured me you would not mind,” Eyck eyes him nervously. “Lord Trava arranged the purchase of the house next door and we were able to create several doorways through the joining wall. Your room has not been touched except for when I dust it.”

“I don’t care about my room!” Jaskier laughs. “I just don’t understand how this happened!”

“Lady Kate arranged it,” Eyck explains, as though that clarified anything. “She and Mousesack assured me you would not mind as it would help you and Princess Ciri.”

Jaskier decides to drop the subject for now. The former knight sounds so certain he’s done the right thing and Jaskier will not torment him by questioning his logic. He can wait until Kate and Mousesack rise in the morning to interrogate  _ them  _ on their complicated thought processes. 

The thought of once again sleeping in his own bed, in his own house, is an appealing one, especially when he realises Boxer has made a nest in his blankets.

His favourite dog is ecstatic to see him, waking the moment he enters the room and crowding him onto the bed so he can lie on top of Jaskier and pin him in place for the night. The River god frees an arm so he can scratch Boxer’s ears. The heavy mongrel pants happily and rubs his giant head against Jaskier’s hair in welcome, his short stumpy tail whacking rhythmically against his knee.

It’s nice to be certain of one’s welcome once more!

He gives up on the idea of getting undressed, accepting his fate as Boxer closes his eyes and starts to snore. A powerful River god he may be, but Jaskier knows his chances of winning this fight are slim. So, he closes his own eyes and lets himself relax into the soft covers, marvelling at how much joy he feels at returning to Lettenhove.

It’s an area of the world he tried to avoid for so long, but now he can return to his house, his acolyte and his many animals, it’s not so bad.

It helps that every corner and shadow in the house sparks a memory of Ciri or Geralt. Just walking up from his river to the house had made him think about the afternoon when he’d napped in the sun with Geralt the day before they’d set off for Kaer Morhen. Ciri’s enthusiastic attempts to help Eyck cook dinner are printed all over the kitchen (in some cases, literally).

Her room next to his is untouched and exactly as he remembers it. Her bed just waiting for her to crawl into it. 

The only thing missing from his home to complete his joy is the two of them, and he doesn’t know if all three together will ever be safe this far south again.

Before retiring to his own bed, Eyck had enquired if he’d like his report on Nilfgaard and the local political situation then or in the morning. As Jaskier had discussed Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms in great depth with Old Father Pontar and Osmond before he’d left Oxenfurt, he assured Eyck that his report could wait until morning.

Eyck’s tight-lipped expression hadn’t sparked any confidence in Ciri’s eventual safe return to Lettenhove occurring anytime soon. 

Jaskier settles into a restful slumber and is only awoken when the smell of bacon wafts through his door and rouses Boxer from sleep. Having a heavy dog clamber over you and scratch pathetically at the door, whining pitifully, is not conducive to lie-ins. Jaskier blearily stumbles from his comfortable bed and heads down to the dining room to investigate breakfast.

Five sets of eyes blink at him from around the large table and there is not an adult in sight.

Jaskier suddenly understands why Mousesack and Kate thought they were helping Ciri.

There are three girls and two boys. The youngest girl is a little brown haired, chubby cheeked toddler sitting happily in a similar looking boy’s lap. The boy looks to be about seven and Jaskier is prepared to bet the two of them are siblings. 

The oldest boy is around fourteen, if Jaskier’s any judge. Dark skinned and with violet eyes similar to those of a certain sorceress Jaskier’s still not a fan of. Unlike Yennefer’s though, the boy’s eyes are warm, even if slightly wary of this stranger in their midst. Most likely an elvish ancestor in the not too distant past.

But it’s the remaining two girls who most attract Jaskier’s interest. Both flaxen haired with green eyes and around thirteen years old.

They could pass for Ciri’s sisters in a heartbeat.

“Jaskier!” a friendly familiar voice speaks up behind him, and he whirls around to face the woman in the hallway.

He almost doesn’t recognise her.

Kate looks radiant!

She’s always been beautiful. Tall and lithe, with pale skin, dark eyes and tawny curls she used to wear down and bouncing around her shoulders. But Jaskier had only ever seen her in and around Aunty Irina’s brothel, and while she’d always seemed happy, it’s nothing to the joy emanating from her now.

Her thin, revealing dress has been replaced with a simple, well-made wool affair that she’s decorated with an engraved leather belt, and her hair is pinned elegantly on the top of her head. The wrinkles she’s fought off for so long have started to crowd around the corners of her eyes and mouth, and they crinkle under the full force of her delighted smile.

She looks like the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders and she finally understands the meaning of the universe.

“Eyck didn’t tell us you’d arrived,” she swoops forwards to embrace him and bestow a kiss upon each cheek.

“I got in late last night and didn’t want to disturb you,” he returns the kisses.

“Children,” she beams, putting the older ones at ease even as the youngest continues to splatter oatmeal all across the table with her spoon. “This is Jaskier, our benefactor. Remember, we told you all about him. 

“Jaskier, these are my children.” She takes the smallest girl from her brother, allowing him to move up a seat and start on his own breakfast, while she takes over, cajoling the child to eat the soggy oats. Her beautiful dress is instantly grabbed by a sticky hand and oatmeal smeared across the light green fabric, but Kate doesn’t seem to care.

“This little goblin,” she blows a raspberry on the little girl’s cheek, causing her to shriek with high pitched giggles, “is Marion. This is Filip,” she nods at Marion’s brother, then gestures to the two Ciri lookalikes. “Theodora and Cordelia, and finally we have Aleksander.”

The children all wave, apart from Aleksander who straightens his shoulders and strides round the table, holding out a hand for Jaskier to shake. It’s impressive how put together he appears outwardly, especially when Jaskier detects a slight tremble in the boy’s hand. Theodora and Cordelia snigger at the older boy, but the River god gives Aleksander his most honest smile and solemnly shakes his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir. Thank you for letting Miss Kate and Mousesack take us in.”

“No need for ‘sir’,” Jaskier assures him, and he can feel the room relaxing around him as the natural effect of his presence starts to put the room at ease. “Jaskier does me just fine. Or,” he winks at the giggling girls, “’Jaskier, the Continent’s Finest Bard’ will do. 

“Now, important question. Is any of that bacon for me?”

He adroitly guides Aleksander back to his seat and sits down cheerfully between him and the girl he thinks is Cordelia, before loading up his plate with bacon, scrambled eggs and toast. His natural charm saves the table from any awkward silences and he soon has the children talking over each other to tell him about the vegetable patch they’re tending with Eyck.

Kate catches his eye and gives him a look that promises an explanation later.

Eyck joins them shortly, and Filip practically glues himself to the former knight’s side the moment he sits down, solemnly asking Eyck if he needs help feeding and caring for the animals today.

Before long, everyone has finished eating and Kate has allocated tasks to everyone under her command. Filip gets his wish and goes with Eyck, while Aleksander, Theodora and Cordelia are given a list and sent to the market with strict instructions to send Mousesack home if they see him. 

The druid, it seems, has become known for having a deft hand at healing and often spends his time down by the docks helping the less fortunate. Jaskier doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that there’s a sizable number of refugees from Cintra currently living in the city’s slums. 

He also suspects that it’s no coincidence that all the children have Cintrian accents. 

Soon it is just Kate, Jaskier and little Marion in the house. Kate ushers Jaskier into his own living room, deposits Marion in a corner fitted with soft pillows and some wooden toys and goes to make them a hot drink.

By the time she comes back, Jaskier has abandoned the sofa to play on the floor with Marion and one of the cats, which had made the mistake of getting within grabbing distance of the toddler.

“Marion, let the poor cat go,” Kate gently admonishes before settling down regally on the divan and gesturing for Jaskier to join her.

They keep a careful eye on the young girl for a few moments, but she seems quite content playing by herself for now, allowing them to finally talk about serious matters.

“We were so relieved when Lord Trava told us you got…” she hesitates, glancing around suspiciously as though the walls might be spying on them. “ _ Fiona _ to safety. I think we just missed you by a couple of days, but once Mousesack managed to convince Eyck we were your friends, he was most accommodating. Such a lovely man.”

“You might be one the few to say so,” Jaskier gives her a wry smile. “I’m glad you’re safe Kate. I was so worried about you when I heard Cintra had fallen.”

A shadow of grief flits over her face. “It was terrifying Jaskier,” she admits softly. “Even though all we had to do was cross the street to get to your mother’s protection. I thought we’d be cut down before we made it. The whole city was burning!”

Jaskier grimaces. “I heard.  _ Fiona _ still has nightmares about it.”

“That poor girl; she’s lost so much. I’m glad she had you and your family to watch out for her. You’re a good father, Jaskier. That girl is lucky to have you.”

“I’m the lucky one,” he admits. “Though I see you’ve found some luck of your own.”

Kate laughs quietly, her fond gaze landing on Marion who is trying to jam a wooden triangle into a circular hole. “So many orphans after the attack. I was glad to be able to give some of them a home.”

Jaskier scrutinises her, wondering if he needs to point out the obvious similarity of Ciri to Cordelia and Theodora. “The two older girls could be twins, almost. Or triplets if you add my Fiona.”

“Come now, Jaskier. Is a good deed lessened just because there is another motive at play as well? There was talk, you know, about the famous bard living here and the young girl who moved in with him. Some traders at the market with Nilfgaardian accents sounded more than a little suspicious. Now any attempt at stirring up questions and gossip gets shot down.

“You should have heard the owner of the fish stall when she overheard a travelling spice merchant suggest it was an odd thing for you to do. ‘That kind hearted boy has set up a house to take in some of those poor children  _ your kind  _ orphaned.’ He was practically jeered out of the marketplace.

“And if Fiona ever wishes to return here, what is one more flaxen haired child among the others we have? There are a number of refugee girls from Cintra with a very similar look.”

There is an unusual lump lodged in Jaskier’s throat, and his eyes are damp. The risk Kate, Mousesack and Eyck had taken in giving shelter to children who bore a resemblance to the missing Lion Cub of Cintra is not lost on him. “Thank you.”

Kate shakes her head. “Don’t thank me Jaskier. You’ve certainly done a lot for me over the years, and you’re so important to both me and Mousesack. Besides, I’ve always wanted children of my own. I never thought I could have,” she gestures around the room and towards Marion, “all this.”

“Is she yours?” Jaskier suspects not, but he has to check. He’s too nosy not to.

“No. I can’t have children of my own.” Kate’s lips quirk slightly, as if she’s trying to brush off any residual grief that statement brings. “When I first started working, I didn’t know all the tricks. This was before I got a job at Madam Irina’s. I was pregnant within six months, but it took me a while to realise. 

“When I did… Well I had little money, not even a room of my own. I shared with another girl. I tried to get rid of it; I couldn’t see any other option. My pimp at the time made it quite clear that if I didn’t, he’d drown the babe the moment it was out of me.”

Jaskier can’t help but flinch at that, and Kate reaches across to take his hand, squeezing it in a silent apology.

“I tried all manner of herbal remedies for my problem, but the babe must have been as tough as I was, because it hung in there. Eventually my pimp sent me to this old woman who lived in that creepy alley by the fish market. She…”

Kate breaks off, unable to continue with that sentence.

“Well, needless to say, that night took away any chance of my ever giving birth to my own children in the future.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to squeeze Kate’s hand. He raises it to his lips to press a gentlemanly kiss to the back. She’s still one of the best women he knows, and nothing from her ‘sordid’ past will change his mind. She’ll always be a proper ‘Lady’ to him. She always has been. Ever since the first time he’d seen her at Aunty Irina’s and watched her skillfully handle a drunk customer with bad manners and a worse temper with a smile on her face and a dagger in her boot.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, for lack of anything better to say.

“Don’t be. I was upset at first, then I was angry. And then I decided that one day I would find a way to be a mother. That out there, there was a child who needed me just as much as I wanted them. Working at Irina’s, meeting you and your family, falling in love with Mousesack, it just confirmed to me that blood has very little to do with family.

“And you, Jaskier. You helped me get all this.” 

Jaskier shakes his head, feeling distinctly embarrassed. 

“You did,” Kate insists. “ _ You _ introduced me to Mousesack. It was because  _ you  _ care for him that your brother saved him and brought him safely back to me. We’re staying in  _ your  _ house, and it has given us a place to raise our children. I owe you so much, Jaskier.”

“No,” he says hoarsely. “You don’t. You’re the one who did all this Kate. You’ve always been there for me whenever I was in Cintra. That year when I was recovering, you came round and refused to let me wallow in my room. You helped my family drag me back into the world, and you let me cry on you when the healing was happening too slowly and everything hurt. 

“And you’re the one who opened your heart and (alright) my home to these children when they needed someone most. You’ll be an amazing mother to them Kate, but that’s all down to you.”

They’re both sniffling now.

“Let’s just agree that we’re both pretty amazing,” Kate huffs, wiping her eyes on a hanky she retrieves from her sleeve.

“Alright,” he agrees. “And Kate, feel free to fill this house with as many children as you want. Just make sure there’s room for Eyck’s ever-expanding furry army.”

“Of course,” she laughs. “They’re all so good with the children, and Filip is besotted with them. Alek has been making noises about getting an apprenticeship with the local blacksmith, but I’m trying to persuade him not to move out if he does. 

“The poor boy deserves some looking after. He spent months living in the woods, hiding from Nilfgaardian soldiers and scavenging for food for himself, Cordy and Thea. Those girls are inseparable; they insist on sharing a room. And now that we have the property next door, there’s plenty of room for everyone. I could fit at least three more children in, if we find any who need a good home. It would be nice for Filip if there was another child closer to his age. He’s so shy, but he adores helping Eyck.”

Jaskier spends the next hour completely enthralled as Kate waxes on about the children. Their personalities, hopes, fears and dreams.

Things aren’t perfect, he gathers. All the children have been through traumatic events and no one in this house is free from nightmares. Occasionally they act up, test boundaries and wait to see what the fallout will be, but Kate doesn’t seem to have expected any less. Mousesack spent years working around Calanthe’s short temper which has put him in good stead for whatever tantrums come his way, and the children have all learnt that a sermon from Eyck on the proper behaviour expected of young children is worse than any punishment the other two might come up with.

It’s with great reluctance that he peels himself away from Kate to go and run some errands. He needs to be seen about the city, let the gossip mill know he’s back and make contact with the network of informants he set up last time he was here. He also has a few new ballads about Geralt to sing to the weary patrons of his favourite inn. They’re new only in the sense that he’s never sung them to an audience before. The actual hunts took place several years ago, but Jaskier hopes the audience will infer that he and Geralt have spent the last couple of months following their usual routine of travelling together and hunting monsters.

Having given Yennefer’s final words to him some thought, he reluctantly agrees with her that it might be beneficial to muddy the waters where Geralt (and indirectly Ciri) is concerned.

It’s late when he returns, and the sun is beginning to dip out of sight below the horizon. He decides to skip the noisy dinner taking place in the dining room and instead heads out back to admire his river and the way the setting sun lights up the ripples in the water.

There is a familiar figure sitting cross-legged on his own at the end of the dock.

Jaskier goes to sit quietly next to him, tugging off his boots and dipping his bare feet into his river, relishing the feeling of being home.

Mousesack says nothing, doesn’t even glance at him until the sun’s sphere is completely obscured by the horizon.

“It has been too long, old friend,” the druid’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “Much has happened since we last met.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, trailing his feet absently through the water. “I’m glad you survived it.”

“So many didn’t.”

“No, but I’m so happy  _ you _ did. But I’m sorry about Eist. I’m sorry about Calanthe. I know you cared for them both deeply.”

Mousesack shrugs. “She was a stubborn woman. She would never consider backing down and surrendering. And he would follow her into death and beyond. Though it turned out to be the other way round in the end.”

Jaskiers grasps the druid’s shoulder. Trying to offer any comfort he can give.

“There was so little I could do,” Mousesack continues, staring fixedly at the bank on the other side of the river. “I was so little use in the end. They got through my shields. Kidnapped me and tried to use me to find Ciri. If it hadn’t been for Lord Trava…”

“You did all you could!” Jaskier insists firmly. “But you were a lone mage and Nilfgaard has trained an army of them!”

Mousesack snorts. “Hardly an army of mages! Just some disposable, poorly trained, magically inclined fools regarded as expendable as the sorceress Fringilla used them to achieve her lofty goals.”

“Still more than you had!” Jaskier argues. “Calanthe had spent so long banishing almost all traces of magic from her kingdom that you alone were up against impossible odds. You did all you could. I know you did!”

“But I wasn’t able to keep the princess safe. My failure could have killed her!”

“But it didn’t, and you gave her enough time to escape the city and for my siblings to find her and get her to me. You helped Mousesack!” Jaskier turns to face the druid, moving his hand from the druid’s shoulder to the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “I couldn’t have managed to get her to me without you, and she’s  _ safe  _ now. She’s with Geralt.”

Mousesack slumps against him. “Only fools slight Destiny. She will have her way.”

Jaskier hums his agreement and begins carding his other hand soothingly through the druid’s hair.

“How long have we known each other, Jaskier?” Mousesack breathes, head sliding down to rest against the bard’s shoulder.

“Over thirteen years, almost fourteen.”

“And I’ve been half yours for most of them. It suited us back then. It meant I could continue to serve Calanthe and you knew someone you could trust was always near Ciri.

“But Calanthe’s gone now and Ciri is in your care. Now I live here, in your house, with the woman I adore and the children she’s adopted.

“It’s time, finally, to commit to the bond between us. To be fully yours. I want to be your acolyte.”

Jaskier’s hand stills. “I need you to be sure,” he cautions. “Once you become mine, there’s no going back. You’ll serve me until you die, and your life is a long one.”

“I’m sure.”

Jaskier takes his feet out of the water, rises onto his knees and fully embraces Mousesack, cradling the weary druid in his arms as the half-formed bond that has existed between them for so long finally snaps into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He has another acolyte!!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier returns to Mama for Beltane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad people liked Kate and the kids, especially the kids because I had great fun expanding on their personalities in this chapter.
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for being my beta reader.

The weeks leading up to Beltane fly past. 

It seems to Jaskier that he barely had time to blink and suddenly he is diving into his river and speeding downstream to Kagen.

He’s enjoyed his trip home. The security of living near the source of his power has left him relaxed in a way he’s not been for a very long time; not since before the disastrous dragon hunt that had sparked the beginning of the most stressful year of his life.

He’s rather sad to be leaving.

It’d been fun, hanging out with everyone. His home had been instantly brightened by Ciri’s presence, but with five kids under its roof, it positively exploded with joyful energy (even as Cordy screamed that Thea had stolen her favourite dress, despite both girls owning the same dress).

Jaskier had regularly popped out of the house in Lettenhove over the weeks he’d been staying there. He’d spread himself across the inns and taverns of Aerdin and Rivia, singing his new songs about the courageous White Wolf and his humble bard. He’d also made a few trips further afield, to meet up with some other reincarnated River gods. 

None of them had anything helpful to add. They, like Jaskier and Old Father Pontar, were used to flashes of memories and recognition that were not their own, but none had turned into their past incarnation. At least, not that they were aware of (though Jaskier’s tale did make several of them distinctly uneasy as they second guessed every drunken blackout they’d ever had).

After each of these disappointing trips, Jaskier had returned home and sought solace in the company of the children, who could distract him in a way only children could. Little Marion had a bad habit of trying to eat anything in front of her, including the cat’s tail on one memorable occasion. To stop the little terror from gnawing on everything within her reach, she needed constant distraction. Songs, stories and games, all of which Jaskier had been happy to provide, and his heart had melted when she snuggled down into his lap to doze off for an afternoon nap. 

Ciri had done the same, a long time ago. When his stories of epic sword battles and adventures were a good enough substitute for the real thing.

Filip, while initially shy, had been an unending source of questions the moment he overcame his timidity. The adults had not hidden what he was from the children. Jaskier suspected it was because Kate and Mousesack correctly guessed that Eyck would be unable to resist for long the temptation to pontificate about the River god to the other occupants of that god’s home. So, Filip, naturally curious, had bombarded Jaskier with questions that could only occur to a seven-year-old boy.

“Can you turn into a fish? Or a half-fish? Like a mermaid, except a man. A merman. Are you a merman?”

Jaskier couldn’t and wasn’t.

“Could you make the entire river bubble and make a giant fish stew?”

Maybe, but Jaskier wasn’t going to test that out.

“Can you tell if someone pees in your river?”

Disturbingly, it turns out if he concentrates, then yes. Jaskier had drunk quite a lot that evening in an attempt to scrub that sensation from his memory,with Eyck hovering anxiously behind him and Mousesack laughing till he cried.

Filip had also taken it upon himself to solemnly introduce Jaskier to the new pets Eyck had acquired in the River god’s absence. He finally made the acquaintance of the new mutt, Princess Arabella, who did indeed respond to ‘Your Highness’. He also met the rather bedraggled looking raven, now named Haggi, which Eyck had saved after a storm and nursed back to health.

Haggi’s damaged wing means the bird will never fly great distances again, but he likes to perch on Mousesack’s shoulder and accompany the druid when he goes out.

While Jaskier had discovered that Filip, once he got started, never shut up, Alek had remained quiet and reserved. He was never outright rude to the bard, but he had made no effort to get to know Jaskier better during the River god’s stay. He had simply watched Jaskier warily whenever they were in the same room and had allowed others to carry the conversation.

Kate had told him not to take it personally. The other children had the resilience which came from being younger than Alek, their minds more easily able to twist the bad memories into something more of a bad dream than reality, allowing them to trust more in the promise that they were now safe. That’s not to say they didn’t all have their moments. More than once, Jaskier had been awoken by the screams of one of the children as they battled with their nightmares, and the god had seen all of them (apart from Marion) slide food off the table and into their pockets to hoard for later.

Eyck had taken to leaving snacks out in the kitchen at all hours of the day and night.

“It’s so they know there’s always food available to them,” the former knight had earnestly explained to Jaskier one afternoon when he’d idly questioned the plate of warm breakfast muffins Eyck had pulled out of the oven and left next to a dish of butter on the kitchen table.

Jaskier had contented himself with the knowledge that while Alek may have been wary of him, he had still been more than willing to help Jaskier and the girls plan and carry out a bold ambush of Eyck’s kitchen when the acolyte’s back had been turned. The treats may have been free for anyone to take, but they were made more delicious by the work and daring required to enact an audacious plan.

The girls had been something else entirely. So, like Ciri in looks, but completely different in most other ways. Cordy had reminded Jaskier rather alarmingly of Etta. The young girl could talk his ear off about what she’d heard in the marketplace and she liked to model the clothes she made for her dolls to him. Jaskier had recognised several outfits made out of scraps of his old doublets. 

Fortunately, Cordy lacked the brashness that Etta possessed in spades. The young girl could scream like a banshee if she thought something was unfair but, overall, she was friendly, helpful and polite.

Thea, on the other hand, reminded Jaskier strongly of himself. She had badgered him incessantly for stories then, not content with some small moment in the tale, would sequester herself in a corner with some spare paper and a pencil until she had come up with her own version of events. She had also been appropriately enthralled by his lute and Jaskier had impulsively bought her a child-sized one and taught her the basic chords and some simple songs. He’d then guiltily bought gifts for all the others, terrified of being accused of favouritism.

But while he had enjoyed hanging out with the girls, he couldn’t help dwelling on his own flaxen-haired, green-eyed little girl who had been so unhappy at him for leaving her behind. It had made his heart ache in a way he’s sure won’t be healed until he holds Ciri safe and sound in his arms once more.

Which is why he’s ecstatic that Beltane is almost here. He’ll spend the two days until Beltane and the day itself with Mama and his siblings, but the day after that he’ll be off, finally heading back to Kaer Morhen with only a quick stop in Lettenhove to say farewell to his family there.

He pulls himself out of the river and onto the stone pavement just outside Trava’s house. The mortals ignore him as he intends, skirting round him effortlessly and paying no attention to the wet, naked man in their midst.

Trava is waiting at his door, and is quick to engulf his little brother in a back-breaking hug. That’s not unusual for Trava, but the slight apprehension on his brother’s face is. 

Jaskier ducks into the house and immediately turns right into a small cloakroom where he is able to pull his dry clothes out of his bag and make himself presentable. 

Trava hovers.

“Jaskier,” Trava begins, running an agitated hand through his long hair. “We need to talk about Mama.”

Jaskier is only half paying attention as he dodges round his older brother in search of said River goddess. He’s been desperate to see her again. To clear the air between them now that he has Ciri and she’s given him and Geralt her blessing. He understands things from her point of view more now, and he wants her to know that he loves her and he’s sorry he was so resentful of her before.

He wants her to forgive him. To wrap him in one of those hugs only Mama can give. Where he feels like, at that moment, he’s most important being in the world to her. He wants her to tell him that she loves him so he can say the same to her.

“Jaskier,” Trava huffs, trying to delay him, but Jaskier just laughs and speeds up, bursting into his brother’s dining hall where the rest of his family have already gathered.

Mama is there, looking as radiant as ever and smiling exuberantly at him as she rises to her feet and almost runs over to him, enfolding him in the safety of her arms. For a moment it’s like he’s being cradled safely underwater, the noise around him dimming as she holds him securely to her.

“I’ve missed you so much, Buttercup,” she breathes into his hair. 

“Me too,” he mumbles back, eyes closed. “I’m sorry we fought. I’ve missed you Mama. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she strokes his hair, and they stay like this for a moment before they both reluctantly let go.

That’s when he notices her dress.

Mama’s clothes have always been colourful. Even when she wears a white dress, she will embroider it with a multitude of colourful threads until every twirl and swish of the skirt catches the eye. 

She has never worn black before today. It highlights just how pale her skin is. The only colour to be found on the dress are the golden suns she’s embroidered around the hem, the thread the same colour as her hair.

If she were able to walk amongst mortals without causing divine panic, then she would pass perfectly for a Nilfgaardian lady.

Jaskier opens his mouth, unsure what he’s going to say, but that’s when Etta leaps on his back, crushing him in her own hug.

“Jaskier!” she purrs. “You’re here at last! How’s that handsome witcher I left heartbroken in Kaer Morhen? Still pining for me?”

As always, she doesn’t give him a chance to reply. “You must let him down gently for me the next time you see him. I’m afraid I’ve discovered a rather delightful young lord who has completely stolen my heart. He’s just inherited the estate near mine from his childless uncle who passed away unexpectedly from some long drawn out illness.”

“If it was a long drawn out illness,” Ina chimes in, elbowing Etta out the way so she can bestow her own hug on Jaskier, “how was it unexpected?”

“The old fart had been hanging in there for so long that I thought he’d never do us the favour of shrugging off his mortal coil and departing in a timely manner.”

Jaskier leaves his sisters to their habitual bickering to go and greet Adalette and Vda.

“How is Ciri,” the latter inquires in her grave manner, but Jaskier can detect the worry in her tone.

“Not too happy with me being here,” he admits. “But she’s safe and she has Geralt.”

“Good,” Vda nods decisively. “You may tell your witcher that he has earned back the trust he lost when he hurt you.”

Jaskier blinks. “I wasn’t aware he’d lost your trust.”

“Of course, he had. I was hardly subtle in my irritation with him at midwinter.”

Jaskier thinks back. He doesn’t think Vda spoke to Geralt at all at midwinter, but that’s not necessarily unusual for the dryad. Perhaps there had been more to it than Vda’s usual reserve though.

“Err… Right, I’ll be sure to let him know that.”

Adalette shoots him an amused smile and cheerfully requests that Trava arrange for the previously promised snacks and wine to be brought in now that their little brother has finally arrived.

Jaskier tries to ignore his unease at his mother’s new wardrobe, but it’s difficult. His family chat loudly around him, catching up on each other’s lives, but even the revelation that Ina has kept in contact with Coën since midwinter cannot fully distract him. 

He goes through the motions, ribbing his siblings where appropriate and loudly boasting about his own life, but a small corner of his mind is continuously mulling over Mama’s change in attire.

“Has Aunty Irina got her business booming again?” Adalette asks Mama during a lull in conversation.

“Has Aunty Irina opened a new brothel?” Jaskier interrupts. He wasn’t aware of her having done so. None of his siblings had mentioned anything about it when he saw them last.

Speaking of his siblings, every single one of them has stiffened in their seats, even the usually oblivious Etta. 

“She’s moved back into her old premises,” Mama informs him, watching his expression with worry. “I offered to buy her a new establishment anywhere along the Yaruga, but she insisted on staying near me still. Most of her girls refused to go back, but she’s hired some new ones.”

‘Go back,’ Jaskier thinks numbly. Meaning that Mama has gone back to Cintra. Is living willingly amidst the Nilfgaardians. The enemy who continue to hunt Geralt and Ciri and who burned Ciri’s home to the ground. Who had destroyed her life.

“Jaskier?” Trava sounds nervous, and his sisters are looking at him anxiously. Mama looks at him with pity, and Jaskier can’t stay in this room with her a moment longer. Not with this betrayal hanging over him.

He stomps silently from the room, ignoring the pleas for him to come back.

He can’t stay in this house. He wanders out into the street, despite the rain that has started to fall, and loses himself in the crowd.

Jaskier walks aimlessly around for the next half hour, getting drenched and not caring one whit.

He ducks into a tavern and sits broodily in a corner with a mug of ale at his elbow (that he only bought as an excuse to stay) and wills the patrons to give him a wide berth.

This is how Trava and Ina eventually find him, both looking more than a little frantic.

“There you are!” Trava bounds over, Ina trailing quickly after him. “We panicked when you didn’t come back for dinner. We thought you might have returned to Lettenhove.”

“I should have,” Jaskier spits at him. “I should just head back to Kaer Morhen tonight.”

“You don’t mean that,” Trava tries to placate him. “It’s Beltane the day after tomorrow! It’s family time.”

“Family doesn’t  _ cavort _ with the enemy!”

“Oh for Mama’s sake, Jaskier,” Ina huffs. “No one is cavorting with the enemy, but Mama’s lived at the mouth of the Yaruga for over a thousand years. Do you really expect her to leave now?”

“Yes!” he yells, and he’s so angry that his control slips and a fight breaks out at the bar as his emotions leak out and affect everyone around him. “After what the Nilfgaardians did to Cintra, she shouldn’t want to be anywhere near them! She could live anywhere along the Yaruga!”

“She was there before Cintra was even Cintra! How do you think the country was even formed? Do you think the elves just handed over the land peacefully to the humans? Mama stayed then and she’s staying now.”

Jaskier’s jaw is clenched so tight that he can hear his teeth grinding over the noise of the ongoing brawl.

“I want to be alone,” he snaps at his siblings, swiveling around in his seat in an attempt to turn his back on them.

“Grow up, Jaskier,” Ina retorts. “This isn’t about you. This is Mama choosing to live where she’s most powerful, where her River meets the sea. She doesn’t have to tiptoe around your feelings.”

She stalks out but Trava hesitates for a moment.

“I’m over three hundred years old,” he begins, and Jaskier grunts, not sure how this is supposed to cheer him up.

“I’ve lived in or near Kagen for most of my life. It’s always been right on the border between Cintra and Sodden. It’s been passed between those two countries a dozen times since I’ve been alive. Sometimes peacefully, sometimes not. You learn, when you get to my age, that for the most part life just goes on. It doesn’t matter what flag is flown over the town hall; people just get on with their lives and one monarch is very much like the next.

“I know you're upset about Cintra falling, but the odds are that when you get to my age the Continent’s borders will be completely different from what they are today. Some countries will disappear completely while others will appear out of nowhere and become serious powers in their own right. The Pankratz might not always be in Aerdin. Maybe Rivia will conquer it, or the dwarves and elves might rise up and claim the land back from the humans.

“But even if they do, it’ll still feel like your home. You’ll still find a way to make a life for yourself along your river. It’s what we do. It’s who we are. We aren’t human, Jaskier, no matter how often we try to pretend we are.”

He leaves Jaskier to sulk and the bard does so. When, much later, he stumbles back into the house, only Mama is still up, waiting for him.

“Buttercup, please,” she pleads. “Let’s not argue again so soon after we made up.”

Jaskier tries to speak through a lump in his throat and he desperately tries to blink back the treacherous tears.

Mama cautiously approaches him and folds him into a hug, but he refuses to return it.

“They burned the city to the ground,” he reminds her. “They slew every man, woman and child who crossed their path. Your river ran red with blood of the innocent civilians they butchered. Even now, they’ve set up gallows over your river and hang any Cintrian who dares voice their opposition.”

The tears fall freely now as he remembers Ciri’s sobs when she opened up about all that she’d seen as she fled for her life. His little girl should never have had to have experienced what she did. She was supposed to have grown up to be a queen who put Calanthe and all other monarchs in the shade.

“You’re betraying Cintra,” he tells his mother.

“Betray Cintra?” Mama laughs incredulously. “I’m not Cintrian, Buttercup. I’ve lived by the mouth of the Yaruga since long before humans ever settled there, and I’ll still be living there when the only memory of Cintra is a brief mention in the history books.

“This isn’t the first time my river has run red with blood, and it won’t be the last. Your child’s grandmother, Queen Calande herself, caused my river to run red when she slaughtered every person with even a hint of elven blood.”

“Calanthe,” he corrects her pettily, trying to squirm free of her grip, but his mother is deceptively strong. 

“It doesn’t matter to me, Jaskier! One bloodthirsty monarch is no different from the next. All are ultimately no more than irritating flies crashing repeatedly into a window they don’t realise is shut. They cause nothing more than a temporary irritation.

“You are still so  _ young _ , Buttercup, but you’ll understand this one day. Sometime in the future, when someone raises a glass to toast a king and you realise it’s the great, great, great grandson of the person you thought was king.”

“So,” he hisses. “I just need to sit back and forget what Nilfgaard did to  _ my  _ daughter. Forget what they stole from her and urge her to give up now and hide away forever.”

Mama loosens her grip to raise one hand to try and cup his cheek, but he ducks away from her now he has the chance, still seething.

“It would be for the best,” she tells him sadly. 

“No,” he insists. “She wants to take her country back, and I will do everything in my power to help her. With or without you.”

Fear crosses Mama’s face. “ _ No _ , Buttercup!” she commands. “I won’t allow it! I  _ forbid  _ it! We are  _ neutral _ . We are not nobles vying for favour and getting caught up in local politics. We are  _ gods _ ! The petty power struggles of mortals are of no concern to us!”

“What? You’ll just sit back and let Ciri be hunted for the rest of her life. Let her be killed?”

“I didn’t say that,” she tries to soothe. “If your daughter needs rescuing and we are nearby, then we will protect her if we are able. But we will not fight her cause, Jaskier.” The use of his name indicates more than anything else that she is serious. “And you should not either. This is not  _ our  _ fight. It is not  _ yours. _ Let it go.”

There is a ringing in Jaskier’s head, and his vision blurs. He thinks it’s anger, right up until the moment he blacks out.

When he comes to, he’s standing in front of Mama and his siblings. Every single one of them looks absolutely  _ horrified _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I'm a horrible person!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, at Kaer Morhen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drops in, leaves chapter and runs*

It’s three weeks after Papa leaves that it starts.

At first Ciri thinks it’s a bit of indigestion, but the stomach pains continue over several days and she finds herself snapping at everyone.

The witchers watch, unimpressed, when she throws her sword down during practice, with a scream of frustration. She’s been trying to perfect a particularly difficult drill for the last three days, but there’s always some small way she stumbles or messes up, and she definitely doesn’t look as graceful or as elegant as Geralt and Eskel did when they demonstrated the technique.

It doesn’t help that even when she’s not exercising, she feels unbearably hot and her stomach hurts like it’s all twisted up. She’s also, most embarrassingly, having some issues with her bowels that see her dropping her sword in the middle of a swing to dash to the privy by the training yard, lest she have an accident she’d never live down in front of her mentors.

“Again,” Eskel demands, arms crossed.

“No!” she stamps her feet.

“Yes,” Eskel insists.

“I’ve had enough! I don’t feel well!”

Geralt holds out a hand to stop Eskel from opening his mouth to berate her further.

“What’s up,” he asks, crouching before her. Brave of him, given the nausea Ciri is feeling.

She sniffs, wiping her running nose on her sleeve. There were some advantages to no longer being a princess. Grandmother would have boxed her ears for using her sleeve as a handkerchief.

“My stomach hurts,” she whimpers.

“You can’t let that distract you, Ciri,” Geralt explains gently, pulling her arm away from her face only to use his own sleeve to wipe the eyes leaking tears of frustration. “Your enemies won’t go easy on you just because you don’t feel well. I know it’s hard, but you have to try and fight through it. 

“One more round, then we’ll go steal a treat from the kitchen. I promise.”

She nods, briefly resting her head against Geralt’s shoulder. It’s not the same as seeking comfort in Papa, but there is some reassurance to be had from sheltering in the shadow of Geralt’s broad frame.

Ciri takes up the sword again, and stumbles through one more drill, messing up the final thrust by moving forward on the wrong foot.

“Come on cub,” Eskel takes her sword from her weary hands. “Bath, food, then bed.”

“But Geralt promised we’d steal a treat from the kitchen.”

“Can’t break my promise, Eskel,” Geralt tells his brother seriously, though his eyes gleam mischievously. “Come on Ciri.” He grabs her arm and hoists her onto his back and Ciri instinctively cinches her legs around his waist and buries her face in his neck. 

He’s not Papa. But he’s become someone dear to her all the same. Not a father figure, not yet, but more than an uncle or a friend. She thinks she loves him. She  _ knows  _ she trusts him and she’s  _ positive  _ he loves her too.

It’s the soft way he looks at her when she tells him about her day or makes up stories. It’s the way he patiently teaches her how to fight, pushing when he thinks she can handle it, but carefully tending to her cuts and bruises afterwards. It’s the way he always checks on her before she goes to sleep, both of them commiserating over the hole in their hearts created by the absence of Papa.

Ciri thinks she can now understand why Papa loves Geralt so much.

They pilfer honey cakes from the kitchen, then Ciri dutifully follows Eskel’s directions and has a bath, eats her dinner and goes to bed, with Geralt paying a quick visit to check if she needs anything before she goes to sleep.

The next morning, there is blood on her sheets and nightdress.

For a brief moment she panics, but then reason prevails, and she remembers an awkward talk with her old governess about what happens to girls as they grow up, and she realises what the blood means.

However, while she’s reassured that she’s not injured or dying, she can’t remember what she’s supposed to do  _ now _ . And her options for advice are pathetically limited. Just the thought of having to discuss this with Geralt, Eskel or, worst of all, Vesemir, has her turning red with mortification. 

She thinks she might have been able to tell Papa, but Papa isn’t here, and she doesn’t know what to do!

She sneaks out of her room and down to the hot springs, avoiding all witchers on her way. A bath will not help her figure out how she should deal with this situation, but she’ll be clean at least, and that always makes her feel better.

She slips into the water as her stomach clenches horribly once more and, all alone, she indulges in a few tears. Not many. Grandmother had always told her that tears solved nothing. But even Grandmother had admitted a few tears could be comforting.

“Are you alright?” a solicitous female voice asks her from the other side of the spring.

Ciri jerks her head up in surprise.

Gwen, Papa’s cousin, is sitting a few feet away in the water, looking at her with concerned eyes. Ciri has only seen her once since midwinter. Vesemir had taken her along on one of his visits to the River goddess after Gwen had told him she had a message for Ciri from Papa (letting her know that he’d reached Lettenhove safely and both Mousesack and Eyck sent their love).

“How did you get in here?” she blurted out, instead of answering the question.

“Through the water below the ground. I promised Jaskier I’d watch out for you, and this is the easiest way into the keep.” Gwen gives her a soft smile, and it’s comforting, despite the River goddess having just admitted to spying on her. 

Ciri is used to having people intrude upon her solitude. The life of a princess rarely allows much time for private contemplation. It had startled her, when she first moved in with Papa, that he and Eyck both knocked and waited for her permission before entering her room. At the palace in Cintra, servants would bustle in and out as required. They would bow their heads and pretend they weren’t there, but that wasn’t the same as true privacy. 

Even now, at Kaer Morhen, none of the witchers would enter her room without permission, and they usually took her retreats to her room as a sign that she wished to be alone. 

“What’s wrong?” Gwen inquires, and her voice is gentle and calming. Ciri can’t help but trust it as she chokes out her dilemma.

Gwen listens sympathetically, moving across the pool to sit near Ciri and rub her back soothingly.

“I feel so silly,” Ciri admits. “I knew it had to start soon. I’m old enough. It was just a shock.”

“Nothing silly about it,” Gwen reassures. “I was much the same, and I had my mother and older sisters to lean on.

“But I can help if you like. I know you might have preferred your Papa, or maybe one of his sisters, but I’m here if you need me.”

Ciri, as much as she loves her Papa, she greatly prefers the idea of having Gwen’s assistance rather than his. And Gwen is definitely preferable to Lady Esther! Adalette would have been fine, but Ciri knows that if she had a choice then it would be either Ina, with her briskness, or Vda who is Ciri’s favourite of all of Papa’s siblings.

But none of them are here, and she would far rather learn about what to do from Gwen than have to ask Geralt.

“Yes please,” she whispers meekly.

Gwen stands up and gracefully steps out of the pool, turning to offer Ciri a hand.

“Let’s head up to your room and we can talk properly there.”

Ciri scrambles towards her clothes, but as she pulls them on she realises that Gwen has none. This doesn’t seem to bother the River goddess, who goes striding out of the room the moment Ciri has wrangled her shirt over her head.

Eskel chokes on his drink as they head through the dining room and towards the stairs. Vesemir blinks owlishly at the goddess.

“Gwen? I thought we weren’t meeting until next week?”

“I came to visit Ciri,” Gwen gives him a sweet smile and continues onwards. Vesemir turns back to the coughing Eskel and slaps him hard on the back. 

They get to Ciri’s room without running into Geralt, and Gwen quickly shows Ciri how to use clean rags to line her underwear and soak up the blood, and then sits her down for a more serious talk about symptoms.

“No two women are the same, and we all feel it differently. I have always been lucky. I’ve never had anything worse than a few light cramps and a bit of moodiness.” She shrugs from where she is sitting on Ciri’s bed, wrapped in the soft wolf pelt that Ciri offered her. 

“But one of my sisters,” Gwen continues. “Had an awful time of it. Cramps so bad they used to make her vomit. Headaches, chills, hot flushes. She was almost completely incapacitated once a month. So, don’t try to be brave and soldier on. I need you to tell me honestly what you’ve been feeling.”

Fiddling nervously with a loose thread on her cuff, Ciri does so. Gwen takes the time to listen and comes up with suggestions for Ciri to try: hot drinks, a warm towel on her abdomen, gentle exercise.

“Nothing too strenuous though. No spending hours on sword drills or being tackled to the ground by burly witchers.”

“But I have to train,” Ciri protests. “Geralt and Eskel say that if I can’t win at my worst, then I might not survive to fight at my best.”

“I’m sure,” Gwen sniffs, “that if you were ever to be in a life or death situation while menstruating, the adrenaline your body provides in such circumstances would effectively block any discomfort. But training is not life or death, so you can afford to take it easier once a month.”

“But then I’ll have to tell them what’s happening,” Ciri moans.

Gwen looks at her incredulously. “They’re grown men,” she remarks. “And they’re old men to boot. If they haven’t figured out this aspect of female biology by now, then it’s about time they learned!”

“It’s embarrassing,” Ciri whines.

Gwen laughs, but not unkindly. “Oh, alright. I suppose it is,” she agrees. “Do you want me to speak to them? I’m not as intimidating as Cousin Ina, but I’m sure I can impress upon them the need to do as I say.”

Ciri sags in relief at not having to have this particular conversation and nods. Then a new problem occurs to her.

“But what do I do when it happens again next month? You can’t come up every time to tell them.”

“Are you sure you won’t be able to tell them?” Gwen asks. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. If they can’t handle you telling them that your period is due, then they can go take a long walk off a short pier and I’ll be sure to greet them at the other end.”

Ciri bites her lip, unsure.

“Oh… Well… I suppose you could use some kind of code. You could let them know that if you say… I don’t know. That you ‘dreamed of a red river’ then that means they’re not to bother you with extra training. Or wear something red. But make sure they know the code or it’s useless. Though really, they shouldn’t be so squeamish about you just telling them, and if they are, then all the more reason to do it. This isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

“I’ll think about it for next time,” Ciri promises, wondering if she’ll be brave enough to just outright tell them.

Gwen shrugs off the pelt and brushes a kiss against the top of Ciri’s head. “Plenty of time to consider it then. I’ll go and let them know that you won’t be training today.”

* * *

Geralt is startled when Gwen glides naked into the hall while he is eating breakfast, but not as surprised as he would have been a few decades ago. He is well aware of the Rivers’ casual disregard for nudity. He even greatly appreciates it when it’s his own River god.

“Gwen,” he greets her warmly, and offers her a bowl of porridge which she gratefully accepts. “It’s nice to see you again. Any more news from Jaskier?”

“None I’m afraid. But I’m here to talk about Ciri.”

“What about her?” Eskel asks with a forced casual tone. His eyes begin to flicker automatically down but stop themselves just in time. Not that Geralt thinks Gwen would care if Eskel did look. She shows no self-consciousness about lounging around in just her skin, and if anyone did try anything, she has enough power in her dainty fist to teach them the error of their ways.

“Ciri has just started her first period.”

All three men freeze awkwardly. Eskel stays that way, spoon raised halfway to his open mouth as he stares, gobsmacked, at the River goddess. Vesemir tries to act like he hadn’t frozen at all and deliberately starts chewing his food again. Geralt puts down his own spoon, pushes his bowl away, takes a deep breath and reminds himself that, in the absence of Jaskier, he has sole parental responsibility for Ciri.

“Is she ok?” he needs to get the most important question out the way first.

“She’s fine,” Gwen assures him. “She got a bit of a shock, but that’s normal.”

Geralt nods, relieved. His mind spins as he asks himself what he needs to know in order to make things easier for Ciri in the future. He’s never spent enough prolonged time with a woman to ever have to deal with this before. He doubts Eskel has either. Vesemir… Geralt doesn’t want to know.

“Is there anything we should do? Any way to help?” He decides to keep the questions as general as possible, in the hope that Gwen will reveal all pertinent details without him having to prod.

“She’s having a bit of a miserable time of it,” Gwen admits. “Soothing drinks and gentle exercise only. Don’t let her push herself just because she feels the need to impress you.”

“Alright,” Eskel finally manages to put his own spoon down. “That’s easy enough. Anything else?”

By the time Gwen is finished, the three of them have been thoroughly educated in this particular aspect of female biology. Gwen is meticulous and has a sadistic streak to her that Geralt had not foreseen. She seems to enjoy their clumsy, fumbling questions and expressions.

She gets up to leave once she’s sure they won’t flounder without her. Eskel rises as she does.

“Thank you, my Lady,” he gives her a small bow. “If you hadn’t been here for her then I shudder to think how long it would have taken us to work out what was going on. No doubt you’ve saved us all a great deal of grief.”

Gwen waves off his thanks. “No need for all that. She’s practically family. I’m so glad Jaskier brought her to my banks. It’s been so long since I enjoyed such life by my waters.”

Geralt adds his own thanks anyway, then goes to the kitchen to make a hot drink of honey, ginger and lemon to take to Ciri.

He knocks tentatively on her door and she calls for him to come in.

“I brought you a drink,” he stands uncomfortably in her doorway. 

She looks no different than she did yesterday, but he can’t help think that something monumental has now occurred. If Ciri were still at court, this would be a massive deal. Proof that she was now a woman able to bear children. A step closer to being married off to provide future heirs for Cintra.

Now all it means is that his and Jaskier’s little girl is growing up.

“Thank you.” She gestures him into the room, watching him carefully from behind her hair.

“Gwen said it might help with…” he trails off, not sure if he should name it. Would that make it odd? More odd? He is so bad at this. He wishes Jaskier were here.

Ciri surprises them both by raising her head imperiously and informing him in her haughtiest ‘princess’ tone, “Gwen says you’re an old man who should be able to say ‘period’ without getting squeamish, or she’ll throw you in her river… or something.” She bursts out laughing at the end and Geralt can’t help chuckling along.

“Well, she’s right I suppose. Just allow the poor awkward men you live with to stumble through it initially. We’ll get there.”

She pats the space next to her on the bed, and he joins her. She leans into him, clutching the mug he brought her to her chest.

“Can we have a lazy day?” she asks.

“Of course,” Geralt agrees. “What do you want to do?”

Ciri considers this. “I want to stay here for the moment.” She peers up at him. “Can you sing me that song you sometimes sing? It reminds me of Papa.”

“Song?” he asks, startled. 

“Yes! That one you sometimes sing when I’m falling asleep.”

Geralt had thought Ciri had been sound asleep the few times he’d felt confident enough to sing her the half-remembered lullaby his mother used to sing to him. The one with the kingfisher that always brought Jaskier to mind.

He clears his throat self-consciously but does as she asks. 

“How does the rest of it go?” she murmurs once he’s done.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore.”

“We should make it up,” Ciri tells him. “Then we can show Papa when he comes home.”

“I suppose we can try,” Geralt says doubtfully. He has no illusions about his song writing talent, but Ciri’s eyes have lit up with enthusiasm and Geralt doesn’t want to crush it. It’s amazing how far out of his comfort zone Geralt is willing to go for her and their River god.

“Come on,” Ciri clambers off the bed and hauls him to his feet. “Uncle Vesemir has some poetry collections hidden at the back of the library. We can go look for inspiration.”

By that evening they haven’t made much progress, though Ciri seems to enjoy his rather feeble attempts anyway, if her giggles are anything to go by.

Dinner that night is full of laughter as Ciri excitedly tells the other two witchers about Geralt’s lyrics. After they’ve cleared up, they relax in front of the fire, Vesemir soon falling asleep while Eskel and Geralt try to fleece each other at Gwent.

Neither notice when Ciri finally manages to complete her long ongoing quest to sneak a sip of White Gull, the potent witcher brew which is both a base for their potions and a pleasant way to pass an evening.

Geralt only notices that something is wrong when Ciri stiffens at his side, back as rigid as a board, and the cards on the table begin to shift, as if blown about by an invisible breeze.

Geralt twists round to his ward in alarm and turns Ciri to face him. Unfocused eyes stare back at him but they quickly sharpen with malicious intent.

_ “Did the little godling run away?” _ That same voice that has haunted a few of Geralt’s nightmares since it first spoke through the princess hisses with glee.

“Ciri!” he cries in alarm, shaking her a little. Eskel has stood up and come round to stand behind him while Vesemir jerks awake and gets to his own feet.

“What are you?” Eskel demands.

_ “Poor pathetic Eskel,”  _ the voice sneers.  _ “Still so untrusting. Still haunted by that incident by the Duppa.” _

“How do you know about that?” Eskel’s voice doesn’t shake, but Geralt can tell it’s a close thing. He wonders what happened to his brother near the Duppa.

_ “I know  _ you _! I know  _ all  _ of you! I know  _ everyone _! And sooner or later everyone knows  _ me _! Even your precious little River god,”  _ the voice turns back to Geralt.  _ “No matter how many incarnations he goes through. One day the last drop of water in his river will dry up, and then he shall  _ truly  _ know me.” _

Geralt snarls at the threat and instinctively shakes Ciri again. The girl’s eyes roll back in her head and she collapses into his arms.

Silence reigns over the hall.

“Get her to bed, Geralt,” Vesemir eventually instructs, looking harrowed.

He does as he’s told and gathers Ciri up and carries her to bed, tucking her under the covers and instinctively singing her the lullaby she had requested earlier. 

It feels wrong to loiter in her room while she’s insensible, but he can’t bring himself to go back to his own room. He ends up in the hallway, sitting on the cold, hard ground, his back pressed firmly to the wall next to her door. It’s here that Eskel finds him (or rather, almost trips over him).

“I’ve sent a message to Triss Merigold,” he informs Geralt who raises his head in alarm. “Don’t start,” Eskel warns. “We’re far out of our depth and your River god already admitted that he can’t help. It’s time to explore another avenue and if we’ve got to trust a mage, then I’d trust her.

“Whatever grudge you’re holding against mages, it’s time to put it aside for the sake of your child.”

Geralt’s head hits the stone wall with a thud, and he is quite tempted to continue slamming it against the wall. Surely that will be less painful than having to explain to Jaskier why he’s going to be sharing the keep with a sorceress?

“Your River god is just going to have to get over it,” Eskel correctly guesses his throughts.

“Don’t make light of this,” Geralt warns him hoarsely. “You weren’t there when he was almost destroyed by a sorceress. He’s got so much power Eskel, and you know how mages can be.

“She bound him. Was leeching him of his power. Torturing him. She stabbed him with an iron dagger. It nearly killed him. I was almost too late. If I’d got him to the river even a minute later, then he’d have been lost to me forever. It took him so long to recover. To get back to me.”

Eskel sighs, but while he’s still not Jaskier’s biggest fan, Geralt doesn’t think his brother actively dislikes him anymore.

“We’ll keep an eye on both of them. We can make sure Jaskier is never in a room alone with the mage and, if needed, I swear I’ll step in to rescue him. We have a while to get him used to the idea. By the time Triss gets the message and makes it all the way up here, it’s probably going to be autumn.”

Geralt swallows a lump in his throat, unease roiling in his stomach.

Ultimately, Eskel’s right. They need help and that means letting a mage in.

“What did the voice mean?” he changes the subject. “What happened to you by the Duppa?”

Eskel slides down to sit next to him. He looks weary. “It was about a month before I came back to Kaer Morhen. Griffin hunt, but it went wrong. The blasted beast picked me up and started to fly off with me, but I managed to stab it in the wing.

“So, down we went, straight into the Duppa with that fucking griffin on top of me.”

Eskel closes his eyes and clenches his teeth.

“I couldn’t tell which way was up, or how to untangle myself from the feathers and while I struggled I could feel my time running out. 

“We brush by death so often. This shouldn’t affect me so much. But I swear I thought that this was really it. This was how it ended for me. Drowning in that fucking river.”

Geralt clasps his brother’s shoulder. “Of course it can affect you. We’re not emotionless, no matter what the rumour mills say.” He thinks of Jaskier, who decades later is still affected by his own drowning. He thinks, strangely enough, of the goddess of the Duppa, whom he’s actually met on a few occasions, and wonders if he should arrange for her to receive a bottle of wine as a thank you for not being his brother’s grave.

“Are you staying here all night?” Eskel changes the subject and Geralt lets him. 

“Yeah,” he confirms.

Eskel nods and makes no move to get up.

Inside the room, Ciri sleeps soundly, while outside two witchers keep watch, exchanging tales until the small hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _promise_ we return to Jaskier next chapter!
> 
> The scene in the book where Triss sets out the rule that if Ciri is in a dress it means she's on her period and not to train is funny, but I wanted Ciri to have a mentor that didn't see the need to tiptoe around the subject. I spend far too much time of AITA on reddit, and the number of stories about girls being asked to hide the fact they're menstruating from their brothers is awful.
> 
> As always, thank you to my wonderful beta reader, [Willowherb.](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's return to Lettenhove brings some disturbing news...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the marvellous [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for all their work!
> 
> WARNING: There is a scene involving animal cruelty that some people may find disturbing/upsetting. I don't want to ruin the chapter for anyone who doesn't like spoilers, so this is your chance to click to go down to the end notes if you'd prefer to go in prepared or would rather skip this chapter. If you'd rather skip then feel free to ask me for a plot summary of the chapter.

Jaskier sulks for the rest of the celebration. His family do not try to stop it, actively skirting round him. Jaskier supposes that when you turn into your dead brother and berate your mother for not taking a stand, some family tension is inevitable.

Mama hasn’t looked him in the eye in days and Jaskier has felt no compulsion to make it easier for her. Even the appearance of Pankratz, whom Jaskier is beginning to like, despite them technically never meeting, could not sway Mama from her stance of ignoring the human politics around her. She will continue, as always, to live peacefully with whatever nation happens to be occupying the land where her river meets the sea. 

His siblings keep their thoughts on the matter to themselves, though each comes to assure him that Ciri will always have safe passage on their rivers. Which is fine. So long as Ciri is content to spend the rest of her life on a boat.

Jaskier desperately wants to throw the tantrum Ina had snippily accused him of throwing the morning after Pankratz had confronted their mother, when he’d refused to talk to anyone at breakfast. He wants to scream and rail against the injustice of it all. How can it be right to let the rapists and murderers who sacked Ciri’s home remain unpunished? How is it possible to live peacefully with them?

He hides himself in his room for most of the remainder of the trip, working on a song for Geralt that has been forming in the back of his mind ever since they parted. Nothing Trava can say through the firmly closed door can convince him to come out for anything except meals.

On Beltane itself, he dutifully goes down on one knee before his mother, acknowledging her greater power, but he dodges the embrace she attempts to bestow on him afterwards. He’s done his duty, and he can feel that he’s stronger for it, but that is little consolation now. He should have taken up Uncle Buina’s offer to spend Beltane with him.

Mama comes into his room that evening, not bothering to knock. She sits upon the bed, watching him as he pointedly ignores her and continues to scribble down ideas for lyrics.

“Buttercup,” she speaks gently, trying to coax him into softening. “Please talk to me.”

He doesn’t. It may be petty, but he feels that way at the moment and he doesn’t know what to do with all this hurt and anger simmering in his chest. He doesn’t know how to articulate it in any way that’s not one, long, drawn out scream of rage and betrayal. Even his silver tongue is failing him these days.

“The last time my children fought in a war,” she speaks over the sound of his quill. “One of them died. And he died because we chose to take a side. 

“The first Pontar was even older than me. He warned us against choosing a side. Reminded us that we come from nature and nature does not play favourites. He even made me make an oath to that effect. That I would not take a side in this war. But I remembered being an elf, and humans were destroying our kind, so while I could not fight, I gave my blessing to my children to do so.

“But the humans caught on to the rather fortuitous luck the elves were having along my banks and the banks of my children, and they realised what we were and what we could do. Most importantly of all, they realised how to destroy us. Pankratz paid the price for my favouritism. 

“I know,” and she pauses to take a deep breath, and it shakes as she represses a sob. “I know that he does not blame me for his death. He told me so when you brought him to the fore, and thank you, Buttercup, for giving me that closure. 

“But I do not care how he, or you, view the current situation. I have learnt my lesson, and you can hate me for it if you must, but I will not encourage any of my children to put themselves in danger like that again. The Yaruga will not take a side in this war you are so desperate to fight and I urge you to do the same.

“Take Ciri to Lettenhove. Let my full power, and yours, and all your siblings’ make it safe for her there, and let her live her life in peace.”

“That’s not my decision to make,” Jaskier tells her hoarsely, not turning round. “It’s Ciri’s and Ciri’s alone. No matter what choice she makes, whether it’s to become the first female wolf witcher, or a travelling player, or Queen of all the Northern Kingdoms, I’ll support her. With or without the family’s help.”

They continue arguing for the rest of the night, but the conversation goes round in circles. They cannot come to a compromise and part for the night, both dissatisfied.

Jaskier rises early the next morning and decides to take his leave immediately. He can wait till Lettenhove to have breakfast.

Only Trava is up and he looks pleadingly at Jaskier when he sees his younger brother has his bag already packed and is not dressed (ready to dive straight into the river and go home).

“Please, Jaskier,” he begs. “Stay a little longer. I don’t like this parting.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Mama won’t change her mind and I can’t. Ciri is  _ my  _ daughter. What would you be willing to fight for your child?”

Grief flickers across Trava’s face. “I’d have challenged the Fates themselves,” he admits. He pulls Jaskier into a tight hug, clinging for longer than normal. “Be safe. And call on me if you need me.”

Jaskier nods into his shoulder, a hot lump stuck in his throat, and doesn’t let go until Trava has. 

It’s a sad farewell. Worse than the one before, when he and Mama had parted still angry with each other. That anger has long drained out of Jaskier, and this time there is only misery and regret left behind in his wake.

It’s not a surprise to find Mousesack waiting anxiously for him on the dock in his back garden. No doubt his tumultuous feelings have been detected by his acolytes. But what is a surprise is that Eyck isn’t there as well. The former knight does have a tendency to hover when he’s uneasy about something.

Mousesack looks strained and anxious.

“Eyck didn’t come home last night,” he wastes no time on pleasantries. “I went out searching for him with Aleksander yesterday evening, but we found nothing.”

Jaskier stares at the druid in disbelief, then plunges straight back into his river without a single word.

It’s easier in his river to take stock of the bonds he has. Very faintly, on the edge of his mind, are Geralt and Ciri, far away and safe in the keep of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier can tell that both are peacefully asleep. 

Mousesack’s bond is the most prominent and it pulses with worry.

Eyck’s is strange. It’s as though something is trying to block it. But Eyck has been his for longest, and the knight’s devotion has never once wavered, not even now. Eyck flickers at the edge of his consciousness, but whoever has him, whatever they’re doing to him, they can’t break Eyck’s loyalty and that lets Jaskier get a hold on the bond and tug.

He can feel Eyck’s mind relax in relief and that makes following the bond easier. Jaskier can tell he isn’t far away, and he lets himself dissolve into the water before speeding upstream to find his first acolyte.

The hut where Eyck has been imprisoned is almost a day’s walk from Lettenhove. Jaskier gets there in under half an hour.

He emerges from the water downstream from the hut and hurriedly pulls on his clothes (no matter how anxious he is, he’s not going to go barging in naked; he’s not Trava) before creeping quietly up to the small wooden building. He crouches down so as not to be seen through the open window, and edges closer to try and hear what’s happening.

“I did so hope you’d be difficult,” an unctuous voice drifts across the air. “It’s so much more fun when they put up some resistance. It allows me to fully show off my skills.”

There is a strangled sound that Jaskier assumes is Eyck, and he clenches his fists hard to keep himself from leaping up and barging in through the window. He tries to think what Geralt, or any of the witchers, would do.

“I’m going to give you back your voice now, and you’re going to tell me where your master is.”

A wet cough, the sound of someone spitting onto the ground.

“I will not betray my Lord,” Eyck speaks bravely, but he sounds exhausted and in pain. “I will not tell you anything.”

“You will,” the hateful voice insists, “because I will cause you unspeakable pain if you do not. I want to know where your master is. I want to know if he is still in contact with Geralt of Rivia. Has your master mentioned the witcher to you? And did he talk about the Lion Cub of Cintra?”

Jaskier risks a peek over the window ledge, even as Eyck screams in pain. Jaskier’s blood runs cold and he gags on the heavy smell of iron.

Two mages are holding Eyck captive, but Jaskier seriously doubts Eyck was the preferred target - not when there are iron shackles, iron knives and a red-hot iron poker heating in the fire. This was supposed to be his prison, Jaskier’s sure of it.

Somehow, these mages know what he is. 

Eyck howls again and Jaskier trembles from where he’s slumped against the wall. He can’t move. No matter what he tells himself, his legs won’t move. 

Tears are running down his cheeks, but he reminds himself that Eyck needs him. That he  _ has  _ to save this man who has shown him nothing but blind, unwavering devotion. But even as he tells himself it’s his duty to rescue his acolyte, part of his mind is back in Rinde and there is a burning in his shoulder and overwhelming fear paralysing his body.

_ ‘Please’ _ he prays.  _ ‘Please let me move!’  _ But he can’t and Eyck is still screaming.

Jaskier’s vision is going blurry, his lungs not taking in enough oxygen as he panics. That’s when a voice that is not his own appears at the back of his mind.

_ ‘Let me out!’  _ it urges.  _ ‘Let me help! I can save him. Save us.’ _

Jaskier closes his eyes and a vision of an elf with white blonde hair and eyes the colour of Jaskier’s own swims before him. His breath catches. He’s never known what his brother looked like until now.

_ ‘Trust me’ _ Pankratz urges.

Jaskier, in his mind, reaches out a hand to grab Pankratz’ own and allows the world to fade away.

When he awakens again, he’s back in his own house, lying on his bed with Boxer at his feet and Eyck curled up next to him.

“You’re awake!” a relieved voice sighs and Jaskier turns his head to see Mousesack sitting by his bed.

“What happened?” he asks, mouth dry and head pounding.

“You arrived back with Eyck a few hours ago, but it wasn’t  _ you,  _ but it also was  _ you _ , if you get what I mean.”

Jaskier nods because he feels too weary to debate the matter.

“How is he?”

“He’s going to be fine. No permanent damage. He’s just going to feel a bit sore for a few days. Luckily, Rience didn’t get a chance to start on his more… creative attempts to make Eyck talk.”

“Rience?”

“The mage who was holding Eyck.”

“Do you know him?”

Mousesack hesitates. “You weren’t the only one who came to Eyck’s rescue.” He places a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezes in what is probably supposed to be a reassuring manner, but is just making the River god feel more anxious. 

“Rest assured,” the druid continues, “I’ve confined her to the kitchens, but she refused to go until she’s spoken to you.”

Jaskier thinks he knows who it is. There are only a few people who can cause that look of rage in Mousesack’s eyes. 

“Yennefer,” he guesses correctly and Mousesack nods, tight-lipped.

Jaskier closes his eyes briefly and considers making her wait while he takes a quick nap, but he doesn’t like the thought of her in his house and he wants her out as soon as possible.

He heaves himself to his feet, and his eyes catch on a tiny figure lying under a plain cloth on top of his dresser.

“Squeak,” Mousesack tells him sadly. “She was with Eyck when he was captured. Defended him until her last breath. Some of the men at the docks found her shortly after you went after him. They knew who she belonged to and brought her back here.”

Jaskier lifts the corner of the cloth and quickly places it back down. Squeak’s tiny muzzle is covered in dried blood and her bright eyes have dimmed. Eyck is going to be gutted and Jaskier has no idea how to make it better. He places a hand on the too still body and says a small prayer and a thank you to the brave dog who tried to defend her master.

Yennefer, when he gets to the kitchen, has helped herself to a drink and is lounging in a chair in front of the fire as though she owns the place.

“You took your time,” she remarks. Behind him, Mousesack mutters something rude under his breath. He stands like a bodyguard at Jaskier’s back and the River god is prepared to bet he is shooting venomous looks at the sorceress. Mousesack had been with Jaskier as he recovered from Yennefer’s attack at Rinde and the druid has never hidden his disgust at what Yennefer tried to do.

Druids make deals with nature spirits when necessary, but they always respect them. The idea of trying to subject one to their will is abhorrent. That Jaskier is also Mousesack’s friend means that nothing the sorceress could ever do would convince the druid to trust her.

“And you’ve made yourself at home,” he notes. “Brave of you to drink  _ my  _ wine in  _ my  _ home without having me absolve you of any obligation first.” 

It’s an old custom, largely gone out of practice among magic users, but for many centuries they refused to accept food and drink from each other without first ensuring that nothing was owed in return. 

In reality, it’s not that powerful. Jaskier could only force her to do him a very small favour, such as picking up a new quill for him in the market if she was going that way anyway. But the look on her face is priceless and Jaskier can tell Mousesack is holding back a smile.

“How lucky we’re bound together already,” she smiles with her teeth bared, souring his small victory, but he notices that she puts her wine down on the floor and is willing to bet she doesn’t pick it up again.

“Indeed,” he sits opposite her. “What are you doing in Lettenhove?”

“I was tracking Rience, especially when I heard he was after you. It turned out he had your acolyte instead. Imagine my surprise when I burst in to rescue him and I was joined by a blonde elf. Who, after tearing apart Rience’s accomplice, helped me get Eyck back to Lettenhove and then promptly turned into you.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen stranger things,” Jaskier brushes off. He’s not about to explain his rather unique situation to Yennefer. He does  _ want  _ a magical opinion on the ease with which Pankratz has been able to surface in his mind recently, but he has Mousesack for that. “Why did Rience want me?”

“To get to Geralt, of course. By some miracle, people haven’t connected the young girl you had living with you to the missing princess.” 

_ ‘Not a miracle,’  _ Jaskier thinks, mentally thanking Mousesack and Kate for their warm-hearted cunning.

“But it’s no secret anymore that Cirilla is Geralt’s Child Surprise. There are rumours that they found each other near Sodden, and given that you’ve built an entire career on narrating Geralt’s exploits, those who wish to confirm this rumour naturally believe that you would know.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. “And how did you end up on his trail?”

She grimaces. “It came to my attention that he was also interested in capturing me. Perhaps we both played our parts in convincing the entire Continent that we had been with Geralt recently rather too well. Rience certainly wanted to capture at least one of us. I prefer to deal with these threats promptly before they come back to bite me.”

Jaskier’s really not sure how he feels about Yennefer watching out for him. On the one hand, Eyck is safe, and if she’s telling the truth then she had a hand in that. On the other hand, he can’t help watching her closely, waiting to see what she’ll want to extract from him for her help. He still doesn’t trust her, even if his rational mind is reminding him that they appear, for the moment at least, to be on the same side.

“Did we kill him?” he asks, shoving back his complicated feelings to focus on more important issues.

Yennefer scowls. “He got away while we were distracted saving Sir Eyck and freeing him from the noose tied round his neck. But I got his minion.”

Jaskier curses mentally, but luckily not out loud, because Kate walks in at that moment, Marion balanced on her hip.

“I’ll need you to clear the kitchen soon if you want dinner anytime this evening,” she informs them briskly as Marion catches sight of Mousesack and makes grabby hands.

“Papa!” she squeals, and Mousesack cannot hold his stern expression under the weight of such joy.

He swoops in to scoop her out of Kate’s hold and into his own as she wraps her little arms around his neck and babbles about a butterfly she saw earlier.

“We’ll get out of your way soon,” Jaskier promises Kate.

“Will our guest be joining us for dinner?” Kate smiles sunnily, but there is an edge to it that lets Jaskier know that Mousesack has been telling stories.

He turns to look at Yennefer, but the sorceress appears completely captivated by the small girl in the druid’s arms. A brief flash of undisguised longing crosses her face and Jaskier is forced to look away. He doesn’t like the reminder that she is as vulnerable, in her own way, as the rest of them. 

He may dream of being able to rub her weakness in her face, but when it comes down to it, he’s not vindictive enough to follow through. The whole thing is just too heartbreakingly depressing, even for the woman he dislikes and fears in equal measure.

“No,” she eventually decides. “I need to report Rience’s movement to my sisters. You aren’t the only ones interested in him and his goal.”

She gets up to leave, but Jaskier still has one more burning question for her.

“He knew what I was. He’d prepared for me. Who did you tell about me?” he demands.

She scowls at him. “No one. Believe it or not, your kind are not so proficient at hiding that someone who knows the signs can’t figure it out on their own. You’re hardly subtle, Jaskier.” 

But she’s a touch too defensive.

“So, you haven’t told a single soul?” he checks, and she hesitates.

“Only one,” she admits. “But she’s one of my dearest friends. I trust her completely. She wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Just like Yennefer hadn’t told anyone? Jaskier is prepared to bet his house that whoever Yennefer had told had also chosen to tell at least one other mage whom they trusted, who in turn had passed the information on to someone they trusted and so on.

“Who?” he narrows his eyes.

“My friend Triss. But she swore she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Which means most of the mages in the Northern Kingdoms probably know that the White Wolf travels with a River god. Wonderful!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: So Eyck is kidnapped, and Squeak the dog attempts to defend him and is sadly killed in the attempt. It really wasn't a very nice scene to write, but I couldn't see Eyck going out without one of his dogs, and I couldn't see his kidnappers not reacting violently. Eyck is very briefly tortured, but he is rescued and will be ok.
> 
> In other, happier news, there is a special new instalment of the Rivers Run series coming out this Tuesday! I'm taking part in [Into the Jaskierverse.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545) A series where a version of Geralt and Ciri (largely based on the game) travel across the multiverse, meeting different versions of Jaskier as they search for their own whom they have lost. [A lot of different writers are contributing with their own AUs so it's definitely worth checking out!](https://dancinglassie.tumblr.com/post/627412029895999488/buffskierights-its-finally-here-into-the)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier returns to Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my amazing beta [Willowherb!](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/)

Ciri’s birthday, at her insistence, passes with little fanfare. It’s too weird, she insists, when Geralt tries to convince her that while he, Vesemir, Eskel and Coën (who happened to be passing through Kaedawan and decided to ‘pop in’) might not be the best party planners, they can manage some kind of celebration for her.

“Everyone I used to celebrate with is dead,” she tells him bluntly. “No matter how hard you tried, all I would be able to think about is how it’s so different from last year. I don’t want that. I just want to train as usual and beat Eskel at cards.”

That doesn’t stop them from ‘subtly’ serving Ciri’s favourite dinner, but no one comments on it, and they get away with their small acknowledgement of her special day.

The day after is harder. It’s the day she would normally spend with Jaskier.

Geralt had agonised for weeks over what to do. Should he make a big deal of it? Get the other witchers involved? Ignore it and not draw attention to Jaskier’s absence? 

In the end, he decides to leave the other witchers out of it, but informs them sternly, while he swats their hands away from the food he is packing, that neither he nor Ciri will be training that day. He’s decided to take her out of the keep and further up the mountain, where the views are stunning. It’s here that he unveils the picnic he’s packed, and they dig into it with relish while Ciri badgers Geralt to tell her about the flora and fauna around them.

Neither mentions Jaskier, scared that drawing attention to his absence will shatter the lighthearted atmosphere. Nonetheless, Geralt is mentally counting down the days until he can see his River god again.

He suspects Jaskier may come bounding into the keep the following day but reminds himself that Jaskier may very well have chosen to spend one last night in Lettenhove before coming north. It’s more worrying when he doesn’t appear the day after that. Or the day after that. Or the one following.

He tries to hide his agitation, well aware that Ciri is already on edge.

It’s not until a week after Ciri’s birthday that Jaskier’s slow-moving figure is spotted heading from the river up towards the keep. 

Ciri drops her sword with a clang when Vesemir informs them of this and goes sprinting down to the river, Geralt close behind her.

They crash into Jaskier, and it’s only Geralt’s balance and strength that prevents them all from going tumbling down the hill and into the water. He crushes the two most important people in the world to his chest, nose pressed firmly in Jaskier’s hair. He thinks the bard may be trembling.

“You’re late,” Ciri accuses, voice muffled by Jaskier’s shirt.

“I know,” the River god exhales shakily. “I’m sorry. There was some trouble back in Lettenhove.”

“Eyck?” Ciri questions fearfully, pulling away slightly so she can look up at her Papa. “Mousesack?”

“Mousesack is fine,” Jaskier assures. “Eyck…” he hesitates briefly. “Eyck is very upset.”

“What happened?” Geralt asks gruffly. Reluctantly letting Jaskier go and taking his bag from him, swinging it over his own shoulder, so they can head back up to the keep.

“Squeak died.”

Ciri falters, tears welling in her eyes. “Squeak? What happened?”

Jaskier’s mouth is a grim line. “Eyck was very,  _ very _ ,” he stresses, “briefly kidnapped. Squeak tried to defend her master, but…”

Ciri has stopped, mouth trembling. “Why was he kidnapped? It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“No,” Jaskier barks, crouching down in front of her and pulling her into a hug. “Because of Nilfgaard, not because of you. You’ve done  _ nothing  _ wrong.”

“But Nilfgaard are after  _ me _ . If Eyck didn’t know me, he wouldn’t have been kidnapped.”

“Eyck  _ adores  _ you,” Jaskier insists. “His life is a hundred, no, a thousand times better for having you in it. None of us would be without you Ciri. Nilfgaard will pay for the pain they’re causing, but always remember its pain  _ they  _ are causing. Not you! Never you! You are not responsible for their wickedness.”

Ciri sniffs and wraps her arms around Jaskier’s neck. He picks her up and tries not to show that he’s struggling a little as he starts walking again. Ciri has grown taller since he left and put on muscle as well. Geralt hides his smile.

Ciri stays near Jaskier for the rest of the day, almost always within arms reach. It’s not until much later, after Ciri has gone to bed and Geralt has ushered Jaskier into their own room, that they have a moment alone together.

Jaskier immediately sags into Geralt’s arms in exhaustion and Geralt has to half carry him to the bed, kneeling down to prise off Jaskier’s boots as the River god lies limply on top of the covers.

“You didn’t tell Ciri everything,” he observes, pulling back the covers and rolling Jaskier beneath them. He slides in next to his lover and curls up close to him, revelling in the familiar warmth he’s missed so much.

“Hmm?”

“At dinner. When you were telling her what you’ve been up to since you left, you didn’t tell her everything.”

“No… There are some things she doesn’t need to know yet.”

“But I do,” and Geralt’s tone brooks no argument.

“Yes,” Jaskier sighs, breath tickling Geralt’s neck. “I suppose you do.”

There is a brief moment of silence that Geralt allows, letting Jaskier organise his thoughts.

“I saw Yennefer.”

Geralt goes rigid, mind whirling in a dozen different directions. He simultaneously wants to rip the covers off Jaskier and see for himself that the bard is unharmed, while also resisting asking how she was.

He’d bound her to him with a wish he had stupidly concealed from her, and part of him would always feel responsible for her because of that. No matter how much frostiness any mention of the sorceress might impose on his current relationship.

“She helped me save Eyck, the second time I saw her.”

“The second time?” Geralt holds Jaskier close, unsure of what else to do when discussing such a contentious topic. 

“We ran into each other at an inn on my way down south. I think that as long as we are bound together by your wish, I’m fated to run into her until one of us dies.”

Guilt, that oh so familiar feeling, gnaws at Geralt’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises for the hundredth time, likely just the first of a hundred more.

“Hush,” Jaskier chides, pressing a kiss to his chin. “I don’t blame you for trying to save us when you didn’t know any better. If anything, talking to her made me realise that. 

“And she may prove useful in the future, especially against Nilfgaard. Only, let’s agree now that we keep Ciri away from her. I don’t want our daughter spending time with my attempted murderer.”

Thank Melitele it’s Triss that Eskel’s contacted!

“Alright,” he agrees softly, ducking his head to press a kiss to Jaskier’s willing lips. The bard burrows closer to him. “You’re still upset,” he notes.

Jaskier nods. “Mama won’t help. She’s gone back to Cintra and is living peacefully among the Nilfgaardians. She wants us all to remain neutral. Let the countries fight it out amongst themselves and stay out of it.”

It had previously crossed Geralt’s mind that the River gods might take such a stance, especially once he learnt about Jaskier’s predecessor. He had, however, held out some small hope that Jaskier might convince his family to side with them. It wasn’t ever a lot of hope. If the River gods made a habit of getting involved in political affairs, they’d be a lot easier to discover and not just a dubious paragraph in a dusty old book.

Still, he could tell Jaskier was crushed by his mother’s insistence on neutrality.

The River god sniffed, wiping his nose against Geralt’s shirt. 

“Ina said something to me before I left. Well, didn’t say, exactly. More like shouted it through my door,” Jaskier admits. “She said I couldn’t blame Mama for not taking sides, when witchers are famously neutral.”

Geralt lets out an agitated breath. “It depends on the school. Vipers and Cats tend to get involved more than we think is wise, but Wolves have always remained neutral.”

Tear-filled eyes peer up at him. 

“Then why did we bring Ciri here? What was the point?”

“The point,” Geralt wipes a thumb under Jaskier’s eyes, brushing away the tears. “Was to give her the skills she needs, so, no matter what she decides to do in the future, she isn’t denied any options.

“If she wants to hide away from Nilfgaard for the rest of her life and settle down in a little town somewhere and live a quiet life, then she can. But if she wants to take back Cintra and rule as Queen, then she’ll be able to do that as well. If she wants to hunt monsters, well… we have time to talk her out of it.”

Jaskier gives a watery laugh and surges upwards to kiss Geralt.

They hold each other close until they drift into sleep, and Geralt sleepily decides that he’ll wait a couple of days before explaining about Ciri’s latest episode and the need for Triss to visit.

Just to give Jaskier a chance to calm down and relax.

* * *

Jaskier thinks he takes it very well. He’d been rather suspicious when Geralt left Ciri training alone with Eskel and Coën, so the witcher could come and have a quiet, intimate lunch with him.

His suspicions had not been baseless, but Jaskier thinks he handled it with dignity and maturity.

When Geralt had haltingly explained why Ciri needed a mage’s help and that the sorceress was probably already on her way to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier had simply nodded and fled.

He’d deny any accusations his siblings would have thrown at him that he’d behaved irrationally. They were always telling him to take a moment to consider things from other people’s point of view; to look at the logic of any decision.

He was doing just that. He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t hurled the soup into Geralt’s face.

He had very  _ calmly _ and  _ rationally  _ run away and hidden in a dark, quiet corner of the library to panic quietly by himself while he got his head around the unexpected news Geralt had sprung on him.

He desperately wishes he’d brought Mousesack with him, but the druid has never had a great affinity for portals and Jaskier can’t transport his friend his way. The truth is, Mousesack can’t be away from Lettenhove for the amount of time it’d take him to get to Kaer Morhen, examine and help Ciri, and then return home. Kate, Eyck and the children need him. Jaskier needs him, in Lettenhove, keeping everyone safe.

The druid had understood this. They’d talked about it quietly together, late in the evening once everyone else was in bed, during that extra week Jaskier had ended up spending in Lettenhove.

They’d stayed up late into the night, discussing safeguards and plans for various potential scenarios. Jaskier had finally been able to question the druid on the ease of which his dead brother could take him over these days.

Mousesack’s best theory is that having had the way shown to him by whatever entity had possessed Ciri, Pankratz now knows the path between Jaskier’s subconscious and his conscious self. The more he travels it, the easier it is for him to push his way to the surface.

But, the good news is, Pankratz seems to find it hard to take over unless Jaskier is in a state of heightened emotion. Which is why he has to remain  _ calm _ , and not think upsetting thoughts about sorceresses and iron shackles and, oh god,  _ poor Eyck _ .

His acolyte hadn’t seemed to blame Jaskier for his ordeal. Was  _ grateful _ for the quick rescue. But a light in Eyck’s eyes that had been present since the moment Jaskier accepted the former knight as his acolyte had dimmed. Squeak’s death hit him hard, as they’d all expected.

He had tearfully requested Jaskier’s permission to make Squeak a little boat, that they’d fill with kindling and set alight as it floated with Squeak down the river. Jaskier hadn’t even considered refusing him. He’d stood on his pier with the entire, mournful household, hand resting comfortingly on his first acolyte’s shoulder, as they’d watched the little boat burn and sink below the water, laying Squeak to rest.

Jaskier would swear until his dying day, that as the boat sank, he could hear Squeak’s distinctive, high pitched bark echo through his mind and feel the pitter patter of tiny feet scrabbling over his soul.

The River god chokes back a sob, trying to stifle all sound, when he hears the library door open. He doesn’t want to talk to Geralt just yet. He wants to pull himself together first. To show his witcher that he understands the difficult decision he had to make in Jaskier’s absence, but fear still threatens to overwhelm him. He buries his head in his knees and just prays that whoever it is will go away.

No such luck; the footsteps stop right before him and a heavy weight lands on the floor next to him, knees brushing against his own.

“Geralt’s panicking,” Eskel tells him, leaning against the wall next to him. “He’s somehow got it into his head that you’ve run off back to Lettenhove and he’s gone straight down to the river to try and get Gwen to stop you.”

“Not leaving,” Jaskier mutters into his knees. “Just needed a moment. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah?” Eskel doesn’t sound like he believes him. “That why you’re curled up in the dust and won’t even look at me?”

Jaskier raises his head to glare, which is a mistake as it shows off his red rimmed eyes and pale cheeks.

“Shit,” Eskel looks him up and down. “Geralt wasn’t exaggerating. That sorceress really messed you up.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier snaps. 

“Nope. Can’t do that. If I leave, you’ll just find yourself an even more miserable hiding place, then the dark thoughts will really start creeping in. Trust me, I’ve been there. I’m going to stay right here until you’re ready to face the world again.”

“Why?” Jaskier moans, slumping further down the wall. “You don’t even like me.”

“Nonsense,” Eskel tells him briskly. “You’re OK.”

“You spent months glaring at me whenever you saw me,” Jaskier points out.

“That was just until I established that my brother wasn’t under your spell.”

“Finally figured that out?” Jaskier huffs, wiping his wet eyes with his sleeve.

“Oh, he’s definitely under your spell. But it appears to be completely natural and not some River god mind trick. Even when you were hundreds of miles away, he was still completely besotted. Which only goes to show my brother looks particularly stupid when in love.”

“He does not! He looks very handsome!” Jaskier feels the need to defend his witcher from such slander.

“Of course, he’s not the only one. Didn’t notice until you started hanging out with Lambert and I could see the difference, but you look totally lovestruck when you see Geralt as well. The two of you look at each other like idiots, making kissy faces at each other across the dinner table. You’re disgusting, the pair of you.”

“I do not make kissy faces at him over dinner!” Jaskier objects.

“You do. And in the baths. And across the training yard. The entire keep stinks of your love for one another. You're lucky I like Ciri, or I would have insisted you were both chucked out back into the wild long ago.”

Eskel nudges Jaskier’s foot with his own.

“Feeling a bit better?” he enquires.

The River god considers this, letting out a shaky breath and running a grubby hand through his already tousled hair.

“A bit,” he admits.

“You do know I was the one who called for Triss?” Eskel checks. “Geralt didn’t try and shoulder that decision, like the noble brute he is?”

“No, no. He explained everything. I know why we need to get a mage up here. It’s just…”

“Trauma’s a bitch,” Eskel sympathises. “And you can convince yourself you’re fine a thousand times, but it’ll still rear its ugly head and bite you when you least expect it.

“Geralt explained about what that Yennefer woman did to you. Triss isn’t like that. She’s helped several of us witchers when we’ve bumped into her on the Path. She’ll behave, and if she doesn’t, I’ll escort her out of the keep myself.”

He winks at the bemused River god. “She won’t want that. She’ll be the first mage here since the siege of Kaer Morhen. She’ll be dying to stay and poke around. Mages never can resist the lure of forgotten magical secrets.”

“My noble hero,” Jaskier quips dryly, rising unsteadily to his feet.

Eskel gets up with much more grace and slaps Jaskier on the back the way the River god has seen him do with his brothers. 

“Ready to put Geralt out of his misery?”

“Oh, I suppose I’d better. Before he gets it into his head to ride south in search of me.”

Jaskier allows himself to be herded from the room, cheered, if by nothing else, by the knowledge that Eskel finally seems to have warmed to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this fic is going on a short hiatus for 3 weeks as I'm hopefully (cross my fingers, touch wood, for the love of the Pankratz please let there not be anymore last minute complications) getting married next week, followed by a short honeymoon. My soon-to-be-husband seems to think we should spend the honeymoon together, enjoying each other's company, so there's not going to be much room for writing.
> 
> But I promise I know where I'm going next and there will be a new chapter in 3 weeks time!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss arrives at Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your well wishes and congratulations! I'm happy to report that we were able to get married before any new restrictions got put in place (just) and we had a lovely small honeymoon (right before the area we were in was put into lockdown).
> 
> As always, a massive thank you to [Willowherb](willowherbgardens.tumblr.com) for being my beta reader.

Ciri is startled to run into the woman on the steep, narrow, treacherous path to Kaer Morhen. She had been warned that a sorceress was coming to Kaer Morhen to test her magical abilities, but she had not expected to run into the mage in question while completing her fastest lap yet of the Killer.

She feels slightly bad at how excited she is. Especially as she can see the thought of sharing space with a sorceress weighs heavily on Papa. He’s been looking tired ever since he returned to them, and Ciri knows that the sorceress’ impending arrival hasn’t been helping matters. 

She’d sought him out alone after Geralt and Eskel had first broken the news to her and curled under his arm so she could press herself against his side. Offering the only comfort she could.

“If she looks at you wrong, I’ll cut her head off,” she had told him, echoing a promise from long ago. 

Jaskier had laughed and squeezed her tightly to him. She’d wrapped her arms around him, clinging fast. “And you’ll always be my favourite,” she had sworn. “No mage could ever replace you. Not even Geralt could do that. You’re my Papa and I love you most.”

Now, face to face with the mage, she feels a mixture of concern and nervous anticipation. 

She darts away from the startled woman before she can call out and, breaking away from her usual route, runs quickly and steadily towards the river. She had promised Gwen that she would let the goddess know when the witch arrived. Jaskier’s cousin wanted to be there for him. 

Gwen isn’t visible at her banks but Ciri chucks a few stones into the water and shouts her message into the air before turning and sprinting back to the keep. She beats the sorceress to it and rushes to the training yard to inform the others. When the mage makes her way to the gates, she finds them already open and the witchers waiting for her. Jaskier is absent, having gone to spend the day visiting his Uncle Buina, but Ciri is willing to bet that Gwen has already informed him of the new arrival and he’ll already be speeding back towards Kaer Morhen.

The witch, now that Ciri has the luxury of examining her, is beautiful! The late autumn sun bounces off her tight, dark, curls and Ciri envies that hair. Her own is kept strictly out of her face by a French plait that Lambert, of all people, knew how to do. 

Grandmother would have sneered. The only women who wore their hair down in Cintra were young girls and whores. But Ciri thinks that, far from being whorish, the sorceress’ hair shows her independence. She doesn’t need to keep it up to please a man, or to pander to the cultural norms. She is sufficiently powerful and respected that none would dare question her choice to wear her hair as she pleases.

“Triss!” Eskel steps forward to greet her and help her down from her horse. “Thank you for coming all this way. You remember Vesemir? And I think you’ve met my brothers, Geralt and Lambert. The other witcher here is Coën, from the Griffin school.”

Coën bows and Triss gives him a small smile, but Ciri notices the way her eyes keep straying back to Geralt. Triss takes in the keep, the witchers and Ciri herself, but always her eyes flick back to the white haired witcher. The former princess has the urge to step in front of Geralt and shield him from the sorceress’ view (a ridiculous notion given how Geralt towers over her). It will be awkward, she thinks, for Papa to come home and find not only the mage here, but the mage eying up his lover. 

Grandmother had banished several women from court who’d found Grandfather a bit too appealing and could not keep their blatant admiration to more subtler levels. And Grandfather would outright growl at any man who dared express their admiration of the Queen in too besotted a manner. 

“And this,” Eskel continues, oblivious to Ciri’s thoughts. “Is Ciri.”

“The famous Child Surprise,” Triss gives her a warm smile, that she very tentatively mirrors.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, and Triss’ eyes immediately snap back to him. Ciri feels insulted.

“It’s been too long, Geralt,” Triss greets him warmly. “I hope you’re flourishing?”

“I can’t complain,” the witcher shrugs. “It’s been an easier year than usual. No monsters, apart from this little one,” he nudges Ciri with his elbow and she sticks out her tongue at him. “It’s not often I get to spend so much time with my brothers.”

“And Jaskier,” Ciri adds, because Triss is still gazing at Geralt with a look in her eye that Ciri doesn’t like.

Geralt looks down at her, eyes soft. “I often spend months with him. That’s nothing new. But it’s been good to be able to show my home to the two of you.”

“Jaskier?” Triss questions, and the corners of her mouth seem to tighten.

“My Papa,” Ciri declares. “And Geralt’s lover.” She tries not to blush when saying the last part. Jaskier has assured her that it won’t be so cheek-flushing to talk about such things when she’s older, but currently the words still seem awkward in her mouth.

Ciri doesn’t think Triss likes this bit of news, but she doesn’t let anything else slip.

“Come on, pup,” Geralt places a hand in between Ciri’s shoulders, and she thinks he is amused by her bold declaration. “Your Papa will be home soon, and you need a bath. I’ll see to your horse Triss. Eskel, why don’t you show her to her room. It’ll be dinner soon.”

* * *

Geralt heads in to dinner after stabling Triss’ horse. Jaskier isn’t back yet, but Gwen has turned up. Ever since she helped them with Ciri when Jaskier was away, the goddess has become more comfortable with simply popping in whenever she pleases. Possibly because Eskel seems to have finally warmed to the idea of River gods.

“Good evening Gwen,” Geralt greets her politely and she smiles at him warmly, gesturing to him to sit beside her.

Ciri comes barrelling in two minutes later and claims the seat on Geralt’s other side.

“Have you heard from Papa?” she asks Gwen, grabbing a bread roll despite the others not yet having arrived. Geralt lets her. She’s been running the Killer all afternoon and must be starving. One roll is not going to spoil her appetite.

“He should be here shortly after dinner. I’m afraid my father was unwilling to let his guest go until after supper, though I suspect father will find himself with a rather poor dinner companion.”

Geralt chuckles at the thought.

Vesemir enters shortly afterwards and soon the others trickle in, Triss appearing last.

She stops when she catches sight of Gwen, who has considerately put on a thin robe for the occasion and so is not sitting there as naked as she normally is.

“You have another guest,” Triss observes.

“This is Gwen,” Vesemir introduces. “Jaskier’s cousin.”

The two women eye each other shrewdly and Geralt can’t even begin to guess what each is thinking. He’s convinced he’s better off not knowing.

He clears his throat, breaking the moment, and Triss slides into the only remaining seat at the table, next to Eskel and opposite Lambert.

Dinner is a rather awkward affair. Everyone, apart from Lambert, is on their best behaviour, making the kind of inane small talk that makes Geralt want to grind his teeth. Even Ciri, who can usually be relied upon to carry a conversation all by herself when needed, is quieter (almost nervous).

The tension is only broken towards the end of dinner when Jaskier comes striding into the hall, hair damp and shirt sticking to him. He clearly hadn’t bothered to dry off properly before heading up from the river.

“Papa!” Ciri jumps up, delighted, and goes sprinting towards him. He sweeps her up in a massive hug before she drags him towards the table.

“Hello, love,” Jaskier squeezes in next to Geralt, between him and Ciri, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Hmm… I’m glad you’re back, Kingfisher.”

Triss is frozen, watching them with wide eyes. Geralt silently pleads with Eskel to do something. He is aware that Triss had once wished to be more than his friend, to start a liaison of sorts, but it hadn’t occurred to him she might still harbour such thoughts. It’s becoming rather obvious she does, and Geralt does not need her to give Jaskier another reason to resent her presence.

“Triss, this is Jaskier,” Eskel introduces dutifully, while Lambert reaches around Ciri to slap Jaskier on the back in welcome. 

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” Triss doesn’t quite smile, the small twist of her mouth more wary than anything else. 

“I’m not surprised,” Jaskier exclaims and Geralt can feel the defensiveness rippling up his spine. “My songs are sung in most inns across the Continent. I can hardly enter a bar without some half-talented hack butchering my songs.

“But I’ve heard of you too, fair lady. From a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

Geralt and Triss both stiffen, and the witcher has to fight the urge to kick his lover for blatantly courting an argument.

Luckily, this is the moment Ciri lets out a jaw cracking yawn, drawing all attention to her.

“Bed,” he and Jaskier declare at the same time, and while Ciri grumbles, she goes without too much fuss.

“How strange to see a young girl all the way up here,” Triss observes when Ciri is out of earshot. “I see you’re teaching her how to fight.”

“What else do you expect us to teach her?” Lambert scoffs. “Embroidery?”

“She’s had enough people hunting her that knowing how to defend herself can only be a benefit,” Vesemir interjects, much more diplomatically. “And we are well placed to teach her such things.”

“That’s all very well,” Triss comments sharply. “But you’ve only taught young boys before. I hope your lessons take into account that Ciri is a  _ girl. _ .”

It is Jaskier’s turn to snort derisively. He’s not quite glaring at the sorceress, but it is a close thing.

“You think them foolish enough to forget her gender? I assure you, we have taken every precaution necessary, and where our minds might have missed something, my cousin and sisters have been more than quick to point out our oversights. Ciri does not lack female influence.”

“Then why,  _ precisely _ , am I here?” Triss bit out.

“Because Ciri has some kind of magic we’ve no experience of, and we need your advice,” Eskel cut in, drawing Triss’ attention back to him. “Three times now, she has fallen into a kind of trance, she speaks in a voice that is not her own. It’s horrible Triss. Last time…” he trails off.

“Last time,” Coën takes up the tale. “She predicted our deaths. Mine, she described in some detail.”

Geralt shudders. The last time had been a week ago. They’d been careless, and Ciri had stolen another mouthful of White Gull when no one was looking. The Voice had appeared again and taken great glee in tormenting them with descriptions of what it assured them would be their eventual fates.

Triss purses her lips, considering this.

“I’ll need to examine her,” she tells them. Geralt can feel Jaskier bristle and places a hand on the small of his back to keep him calm. Gwen will no doubt make sure she’s there, if the looks she is shooting her cousin are anything to go by.

“Alright, tomorrow” Geralt agrees on behalf of himself and Jaskier. “But it’s been a long day and I think I’ll head to bed. Are you coming?” he asks Jaskier who nods and stands up with him.

It’s only when they’re alone, safely enclosed in their room, that Jaskier collapses into Geralt. Clutching him tightly. 

“You did well,” Geralt tries to soothe him, stroking the soft hair at the back of his neck. “I’m proud of you.”

“Well, that’s something at least,” Jaskier sighs into his neck. “Though why did Eskel have to invite the sorceress with a ginormous crush on you?” He nips Geralt’s skin sharply with his teeth. “It makes me feel more than a little possessive.”

“She can’t have me,” Geralt assures, feeling a touch awkward. He had foolishly hoped Jaskier might not notice. “I’m yours.”

“Yes,” Jaskier practically purrs. “You are. You know it, but I still feel inclined to let  _ her  _ know it.” He sucks a mark onto Geralt’s neck and crowds him backwards onto the bed. He props himself above Geralt, grinning wickedly. “You’re mine, witcher!”

* * *

It might just be Jaskier’s imagination, but he thinks the sorceress looks vaguely disappointed to find nothing to berate them about after Ciri’s checkup.

Ina has been by three times since Beltane to make sure his daughter is ok, and while things are still strained between Jaskier and his sister, he hasn’t done anything as drastic as stupidly turn away her help. He’d known he would need Ciri’s health and wellbeing to be beyond reproach by the time the sorceress arrived. 

He will admit that Triss is different from the witch. There is something softer about her. She is more likely to observe social niceties for the sake of them.

But, like Yennefer, Triss cannot seem to take her eyes off Geralt for long, and  _ that _ will just not do. Jaskier had almost been forced to crawl into his witcher’s lap during lunch in order to make a point. Lambert has not stopped teasing him since.

While Coën teaches Ciri in the training yard, Triss grills the rest of them on the trances Ciri has experienced. They tell her everything they know, and she leaves them to find a quiet place to consider what she’s learned. 

Except that Jaskier sees her corner Eskel later that afternoon, and if Jaskier happens to be mostly hidden by a stack of bookshelves in the library, then it’s not  _ his  _ fault the sorceress hadn’t thought to check for eavesdroppers.

“You do know the bard isn’t human?” she gets straight to the point.

“I do,” Eskel admits easily. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ve watched him and Geralt and if he’s managed to cast a spell upon Geralt, then it’s no different from the one Geralt’s cast upon him. 

“Leave it, Triss. You’ll make no friends here if you start making accusations or try and get between the two of them.” 

Wonderful, sincere, to the point, Eskel. Jaskier could kiss him.

“He’s dangerous,” Triss insists.

“So are you,” Eskel points out mildly. “So are we. So is Ciri for that matter.” And he walks away from the conversation, shaking his head exasperatedly at Jaskier, whom he spots hiding amongst the books.

Jaskier blows him a kiss.

He’s not so amused after dinner when Triss deliberately hands Ciri her mug of White Gull. He wants, very strongly, to object, but Geralt’s hand on his wrist stops him. 

“She needs to see if she’s to help,” he whispers into Jaskier’s ear. Except the moment Ciri begins to stiffen, Triss pulls out an amulet from her pocket. A sapphire on a thin gold chain that she clutches tightly in one hand while the other makes to touch Ciri’s forehead.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier demands, unable to keep silent.

“Be quiet,” Triss commands. “I’m going to follow Ciri into the trance.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Vesemir frowns.

“If either of us should suffer an epileptic fit,” Triss continues blithely. “Then you know what to do. A stick between our teeth, hold us down and wait for it to pass. Chin up boys, I’ve done this before.”

Her hand connects with Ciri’s head and she instantly goes rigid. She and Ciri stare blankly at one another, lost in whatever psychic connection they’re sharing.

It quickly becomes apparent that something has gone terribly wrong. Triss’ face contorts in horror as she begins to thrash about, completely silently, and falls to the floor. Ciri’s mouth breaks into a smile of unholy glee, even as Eskel, Geralt and Vesemir rush to try and restrain the sorceress before she does herself harm.

“Triss!” Eskel shouts, shaking her gently at first, then more roughly when that fails. She continues to flail.

“Fuck!” Lambert observes from beside Jaskier. “What do we do now.”

What indeed? 

Jaskier turns to his wide eyed, maniacally grinning daughter and reaches out his hand. Lambert grabs it.

“Oh no!” he shakes his head. “We’re not losing you to this thing too.”

Jaskier tries to shake his hand free. “It never occurred to me to try and follow Ciri into the trance. If Triss has opened the door, then perhaps I can follow her in. Pull both her and Ciri out!”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but Jaskier quickly reaches out with his other hand to grab Ciri.

Nothing happens.

“Well, that was an anticlimax,” Lambert grumbles. He lets go of Jaskier, undoing his belt to hand to Eskel so it can be placed between Triss’ teeth before she swallows her tongue. “Should we try a chant? A dance perhaps?”

“Shut up!” Jaskier snaps, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the bond he shares with Ciri. It’s bright, and close, but it dances out of his reach every time he tries to grab it. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

This would be so much easier if they were by his river. If he could anchor them in it, draw on his power. He tries to imagine that he’s there, sitting on his dock and trailing his feet in the water. The sound of the city is nothing more than a steady hum in the background as the more prominent sound of the river swirling past dominates his hearing. He can almost feel the warm sun beating down upon his back.

Then, breaking his reverie, comes a very familiar high-pitched bark.

He opens his eyes in surprise.

He is sitting on his dock, next to his river, feet dipped in the cool water. Something small and furry chews on his fingers. 

He looks down.

“Squeak!” he exclaims incredulously.

Squeak gives an affirmative bark and leaps up at him, desperate to lick his face.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier faces the Voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first off, I need to give you all a massive apology. This chapter was never supposed to take so long. I had half of it written before I posted the last chapter, but life came and gave me a massive kick in the face. A mixture of health issues (nothing serious, but I was feeling completely rotten for about two months) and work deadlines meant that I was either working, sleeping or slumped on the sofa taking very little in. 
> 
> Then I struggled to come back to this chapter which was a complete pain to write. A huge thank you to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for both editing this chapter and nagging me to sit down and finish it when I had a massive case of writer’s block!
> 
> I promise the next (and last) chapter is already written and just needing to be edited, so there won't be the same long wait again!

Squeak squirms into his arms and, despite everything, Jaskier cannot help but laugh as the small dog licks his face a couple of times, pawing at his doublet before dashing away to chase her tail. Jaskier scratches behind her ears in the way he knows she loves, and she melts into temporary stillness so as to enjoy his attention properly. 

But the River god cannot help but wonder what Squeak’s presence means.

He gets cautiously to his feet, turning to stare up the garden towards his house. Something strange is happening to his vision. The building shimmers in the air. One second there, one second gone, replaced by a gently sloping, grassy hill on which horses are grazing. 

He frowns at it. The constant shifting is making him nauseous.

Squeak butts her head against his shin, and he gratefully tears his eyes away from the hill to look down at her.

The little dog pads to the end of the dock and slips into the water, waiting expectantly for him.

For the first time ever, Jaskier is reluctant to get into his own river.

He doesn’t know what this place is, but it’s not his home. He doesn’t know what will happen if he enters the water. 

Squeak paddles around in a small circle before looking up at him impatiently. 

Well, he’s not going to be able to help Ciri from here.

He dives into the water and surfaces in time to watch Squeak dissolving into the water, much the same way he does, and he senses her racing away upstream.

He follows her, past Faerlee, past Lairdswell and the grassy bank where he was tossed carelessly into the river so long ago. Up, up, higher into the mountains where an old elven fort lies in ruins near the river’s source. 

Except, when he emerges, it’s not a ruin that greets him. Elegant elven architecture stands tall and whole in front of him. Intimidating, despite the graceful curls of the design. Eerily silent.

To his relief, Squeak does not go bounding inside but instead dashes round the side.

Jaskier follows, and there, sitting with his back against the wall, looking down at the villages sprawled out below, is a familiar figure. He turns and gives Jaskier a toothy grin, one hand automatically reaching down to play with Squeak’s ears.

“It’s been many years since I had a dog,” Pankratz tells him. “Thank you for giving her to me.”

Jaskier approaches cautiously and Pankratz rises to greet him.

They stand face to face for the first time, taking each other in. Not even Squeak dares break the silence.

“I thought you’d be taller!” Pankratz eventually breaks the moment, laughing heartily and engulfing Jaskier in a hug. “Well met, brother!”

Jaskier has to spit out a mouthful of blonde hair before he can reply. “Indeed, we meet at last.” His ribs groan in relief when he’s released, and Pankratz gestures for him to sit. 

“Where are we?” Jaskier asks, lowering himself to the ground. Before him the countryside begins to reconfigure, with villages shifting in and out of focus. Sometimes they’re ones he knows, and then they disappear and others appear. Occasionally, they merge together and overlap.

“Where do you think?”

“Am I dead?”

“No! Not yet, little brother. Not for a long time hopefully. Why would you think that?”

“Well,” Jaskier brushes some dust from his trousers, trying to sound unaffected. “You’re here for one. Squeak for another.”

“This is the River, Jaskier. It’s the one thing we share. It’s what connects us. It’s who we are.”

Jaskier looks out at the mishmash of villages. They’re becoming more solid now, the two styles intermingling. He points. “I don’t recognise those houses. They’re from your memory, aren’t they?”

“Long gone now,” Pankratz tells him solemnly. Torn down and built on top of. The price of losing.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, for lack of anything better. He feels very young, sitting next to his brother. Young and inexperienced and so, so lost.

“Long before you were born,” Pankratz shrugs. “I used to hate all humans. Even after I died, I still hated them. For centuries after my death, I was filled with a senseless hate. Everything you see before you now burned; this is the last good memory I have of it. 

“Then, a tiny human baby was flung into my river.” Pankratz looks at him mournfully. “You were so small, and so innocent. You opened your mouth to cry and were cut off by the water entering your lungs. 

“And I couldn’t hate you. Not this tiny little babe, dealt with so cruelly. I let our mother’s power back in, and you became part of the River. Part of  _ me _ .”

There is a lump in Jaskier’s throat, hot and tight, and he can taste salt as he wills back tears.

“Thank you.”

Pankratz smiles. “The fires went out, and I remembered better times, and lo, they appeared before me.” He chuckles. “Then you went out into the world and started asserting your own perceptions on the landscape.”

He cuffs Jaskier over the head, but gently. “Your adolescent melodrama certainly lingered. Years of storms and dark grey skies. Thank the gods you eventually snapped out of it. It’s not good to hate such an integral part of you.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Having Ciri with me helped. She made the river feel like home.”

“Good. Everyone needs a home.”

“Ciri,” Jaskier whispers. “Something’s happened to her. It’s why I’m here.”

“I know,” Pankratz tells him solemnly. “She has accidentally trapped an old friend of mine.”

“ _ She’s  _ trapped?” Jaskier splutters incredulously. “That  _ thing  _ is holding her hostage!”

“Peace, brother! Nothing we can’t fix. The sorceress has forced her way into Ciri’s mind and left a path behind her.”

“So we can follow her in!” Jaskier exclaims.

Pankratz snorts. “And give up our tactical advantage? We can draw them to us. No point giving up our strongest card. We are most powerful here. Here we shall make our stand.” He rises to his feet, offering a hand to Jaskier. “Be brave and call your daughter to you. I shall not abandon you. I shall stay right by your side.”

He smiles at Jaskier, a proper, warm, reassuring smile. 

He looks so competent and self-assured, reminding Jaskier strongly of Trava (despite the many physical differences between the two), that Jaskier can’t help but trust him.

So he closes his eyes, seeks out the bond he has with Ciri (clear, bright and solid now that he’s near the source of his power, his river), grabs it and  _ pulls _ .

Grey clouds darken what had been a sunny day. The wind picks up and thunder rumbles in the distance. No rain falls, but its presence looms threateningly on the horizon. 

A mighty thunderclap echoes around them and then Ciri and Triss are there, the latter lying on the ground, eyes tight shut, hands clasped firmly over her ears as she shakes her head and writhes blindly in mental anguish.

It is not Ciri in his daughter’s body. Jaskier can tell that right away. The way she stands, the way she laughs mockingly at the woman in pain before her. The cruel look in her eyes.

She turns towards them with a snarl as she realises she’s been pulled from whatever sick torment she must have conjured for Triss.

Jaskier wants to run away from it, this corrupted version of Ciri, just as much as he wants to run towards it. To shake this thing until it's forced to leave his daughter.

Pankratz steps forward before Jaskier’s brain can make up its mind which action to take.

“Oh, old friend,” he sighs sadly. “What has happened to you?”

The thing inside Ciri spits at him, eyes narrowing in derision.

“We are not  _ friends _ , you worthless waste of running water. I do not make  _ friends _ . I am all encompassing. The end of all things. People  _ fear  _ me! I do not make  _ friends _ .”

Pankratz shakes his head, striding across what little ground remains between him and Ciri, and enfolds Jaskier’s daughter in a strong embrace.

She struggles, scratching and biting, but he does not let go. He rocks them gently backwards and forwards, pressing his face into her hair.

“Not true, my friend. You’ve become trapped in the mind of a little girl who has witnessed horrific atrocities. She has warped you into the worst version of yourself, one that is cruel and all consuming.

“I  _ know  _ that is not all there is to you. You are not  _ just  _ the terrifying end. For some you are a comfort, a much longed for companion. You were for me. When I’d been reduced to almost nothing, when every breath was agony and every part of me screamed in pain for release. You were my friend then.”

Ciri stills in his brother’s arms. She lets out a shudder.

“Do you remember now, how you were for me?” Pankratz questions softly. “It was here that you came to me. Right by this stretch of river. Do you remember how I welcomed you?”

A muffled sob comes from the creature.

“Let the girl go,” Pankratz urges.

“She trapped me!”

“She did not mean to. She was a scared little girl.”

“A powerful one!” the creature protests.

“Alright,” Pankratz agrees, smiling. “A scared, powerful, little girl. But you are not in her mind anymore, you are in ours. So let her go, my friend and greet me properly.”

Ciri’s legs give out beneath her and she slumps down, Pankratz carefully ensuring she makes it safely to the ground. Jaskier starts forward, desperate to check on his daughter, but her form shimmers and suddenly an elegant looking woman is lying next to her. He stops, staring in amazement.

The woman is tall and, apart from blonde hair just a shade or two darker and eyes of dark grey, she is the spitting image of Mama. 

She holds up a hand to Pankratz, and he hauls her onto her feet, helping her brush off her simple black dress.

“Thank you,” she smiles at him, and there is warmth and kindness in that smile. “For reminding me of who I can be.” She graces his brother’s cheek with a kiss and then she is gone.

Nothing can stop Jaskier from running to Ciri now, but his daughter is calm, sleeping peacefully, and Jaskier feels the pull as she instinctively tries to return to her own mind, quiet at last. He let her slip away like water through his fingers and she fades from view, taking Triss with her.

Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath, and lies down on the grass, allowing himself to go boneless with relief. Squeak instantly curls up next him, nudging his hand hopefully until he takes the hint and scratches her furry head.

“It’s over?” he has to check.

“Yes,” Pankratz laughs. “It’s over.”

“What happens now?”

His brother sits down next to him.

“Now you go back. This place is not for you. You are living still, and I am dead. My time has passed. This is your story now. Of course, if you ever really need me, then I shall be here. Can’t abandon my little brother, after all.” 

Jaskier feels a watery lump take up residence in his throat.

“Thank you,” he tells his brother. “I’m glad I got to meet you.”

“Me too, and don’t take this the wrong way Jaskier, but I hope it’s a long time before we meet again.”

A strong hand grasps his shoulder in a brotherly fashion as he sits up and engulfs his previous incarnation in a tight hug.

He gives Squeak one last scratch behind the ears, then lets his consciousness drift away, into the darkness of a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the massive wait (sorry again)!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to leave Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for sticking with me throughout this story and making it read a hundred times better!

Geralt thinks he’s going mad.

Jaskier has been asleep for almost twenty-four hours. 

Ciri had, thankfully, woken up that morning none the worse for wear and remembering nothing of what had occurred the previous night. Unable to explain why both Triss and Jaskier were unable to be roused, Geralt had been forced to tell her what had been going on.

To say the princess had been displeased was an understatement. Geralt had been strongly reminded of Calanthe when she’d turned the full force of her glare upon him, and the other witchers had taken it upon themselves to distract her and wear her out with extra training, leaving Geralt to wait anxiously at Jaskier’s bedside.

Geralt hates this. This waiting. Helpless Unable to do anything.

He should be used to this. He’s spent his life patiently waiting for monsters. Sitting in the dark, luring them in and waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

But this is different. 

This is Jaskier, and he’s not sure what he will do if Jaskier doesn’t wake.

He’s just beginning to doze off, unable to keep his eyes from sliding slowly shut, when Jaskier twitches.

Geralt’s own eyes snap open and he’s out of his chair kneeling by the bed in a heartbeat.

He can’t help but deflate in relief as Jaskier’s blue ones slowly open and mussily take him in.

“Ciri?” he croaks.

“Up and well,” Geralt assures. “And you?”

“Exhausted,” Jaskier yawns, jaw cracking, but he worms his way out of the covers, trying to sit up. Geralt helps him, stretching out next to him as Jaskier pats the bed next to him in a silent command.

Despite being under the covers, Jaskier’s skin is unusually cool to the touch. Geralt wraps his arms around him in a bid both to keep him warm and to assure himself that Jaskier is alive and here.

“What happened?” he asks, resting his cheek on the top of his River god’s head.

“Ciri had accidentally trapped…  _ something _ inside her when she escaped from Cintra. It didn’t want to be there, but it couldn’t leave and her experience that night warped it into the worst version of itself. I pulled them into my head which set the creature free. Panktraz was able to convince it to leave in peace.”

“So, she’s alright now?” Geralt checks. “No more voices?”

“Hmm…” Jaskier hums sleepily. “No, I don’t think so. But Ciri is powerful, Geralt. More than we knew. She needs to learn how to control it.”

“We’ll help her,” Geralt promises, though he has no idea how he can keep such a promise. Forces are mounting up against them and Geralt knows their peaceful respite at Kaer Morhen is coming to an end. He feels pulled in too many directions. Part of him wants to keep Ciri and Jaskier glued to his side, but another wants to track down that wizard who was after Jaskier and eliminate the threat once and for all.

A knock on the door startles them both and it creaks open as Triss slips quietly in. She looks as tired as Jaskier does, but she smiles wanly at them both.

“I need to thank you,” she addresses Jaskier. “I gather it was you who rescued me from the nightmare in Ciri’s mind.”

Jaskier shrugs. 

“Which is why what I have to say won’t be easy.” She draws a deep breath. “I can’t help Ciri. Her power is beyond my understanding. She needs a better teacher than me.” She hesitates, and Geralt has a premonition of what she’s going to say, and he dreads it.

He doesn’t want to hear it, because then he’ll have to make a choice and he doesn’t know which would be better. To face her or run? She, more than any other person, has the ability to shatter what he’s built for himself. To risk what he has with Jaskier.

“She needs Yennefer.”

Jaskier stiffens next to him, and Geralt can’t deal with it. Too much has happened since he last saw the violet-eyed sorceress and he doesn’t want to hear her name. To have her spectre cast a shadow over Jaskier’s mind. To have his own failures brought up again.

He’s up and out of the room before Jaskier or Triss even has a chance to call him back.

* * *

Jaskier attempts to give the startled sorceress a smile, but he’s not convinced he succeeds.

Triss edges backwards towards the door but pauses before completely exiting.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him softly. “I know this probably wasn’t what you wanted to hear. I…” she hesitates. “I don’t know precisely what happened between you and Yennefer, but I realise you must have your story as she has hers. I’m sorry I didn’t take that into account when I arrived.”

She slips out, and Jaskier is left more than a little bemused. There is one sorceress, at least, that he could actually end up liking.

As much as he’d like to close his eyes and sleep, he knows he needs to find Geralt.

It surprises him how much the idea of Yennefer having to teach Ciri doesn’t surprise him. Almost as if he’d known Destiny wouldn’t let its stray thread stay loose for long.

It doesn’t hurt the way he expects it should. He thinks he knows where he stands with Yennefer now, and while they’ll never be anything as ridiculous as  _ friends _ , they’re at least on the same side.

Geralt, he expects, has no idea what his current relationship is with the sorceress and that must terrify him.

He heaves himself out of bed, wraps up warmly and stumbles out of the room in search of his wayward witcher.

He finds Geralt pacing the walls of Kaer Morhen, brows creased with anxiety. He stops when he sees Jaskier, standing still like a stray dog that trusts you just enough to approach but is still wary of any sudden movement. Jaskier hoists himself up onto the parapet, sitting next to the witcher and nudging him gently with his leg. Geralt slumps next to him, the nervous tension leaking out of him, though he still looks upset.

“What’s up?” Jaskier asks.

“I don’t like this,” Geralt tells him, curling a hand around Jaskier’s ankle, anchoring him to the wall and ensuring he can’t go over without Geralt saving him.

“I’m not too keen either,” Jaskier hums, deliberately keeping his voice light. “But I don’t think we have much choice and I’m going to enlist my siblings to help. They may not be willing to fight Nilfgaard, but I imagine none of them is willing to allow the witch access to Ciri without a chaperone. They’ll do this for her, and for me. To make up for the tension at Beltane if nothing else.

“They’ll keep us informed of what’s going on, and they’ll protect Ciri. Though our girl is more than capable of standing up to Yennefer on her own. She once promised me Yennefer’s head.”

Geralt lets out a reluctant chuckle, but the fingers massaging Jaskier’s calf still in surprise as all that his River god has said sinks in.

“You’re not going to stay with Ciri?”

“You’re not either,” Jaskier eyes him shrewdly. “You don’t want to see Yennefer. You’re planning on tracking down Rience.”

“We need to find out what he knows, who’s giving him orders, why, if possible, and eliminate him once and for all,” Geralt argues.

“I agree,” Jaskier concurs. “Which is why I’m coming with you.”

He holds up a hand when Geralt opens his mouth to object.

“I’m never going to like Yennefer, Geralt. I can’t. But she’s powerful, and she desperately wants a child to love. Ciri is bound to you and me, which means (as much as it pains me to say it) she’s bound to Yennefer as well, and Yennefer  _ knows _ this. She’ll protect Ciri because this is the closest she’s ever going to come to having a child that is  _ hers _ . At least until she gets her head out of her arse and realises there are plenty of orphans out there who would welcome the love and home that she could provide.”

“Ciri’s not stupid. She’s going to figure out Yennefer is the sorceress who hurt you,” the witcher argues. “She’s never going to accept her as a mother figure.”

“She doesn’t have to. Relationships aren’t always double-sided. She can feel about Yennefer however she pleases. But Yennefer will care for Ciri, and if that keeps my little girl safe then I’ll let her, no matter how much that thought stings.

“I don’t have to  _ like  _ this Geralt. But I’ve accepted that my options are almost non-existent, and Yennefer seems to be it. Not unless I want to send her to Aretuza, and I’ve seen the women that place churns out.

“Still, I can’t be around Yennefer for any length of time. Not only can I simply  _ not _ , but it would distract Ciri from what she needs to learn from the witch if she’s too busy trying to protect me. So, I’ll leave the chaperoning mostly to my family and help you take out another threat.”

Geralt turns to face him, crowding between Jaskier’s legs and wrapping his arms around the River god’s waist. 

“He knows what you are,” he whispers, face white with fear. “He knows how to destroy you.”

“You’ll protect me,” Jaskier tries to soothe, but Geralt shakes his head frantically.

“ _ You _ ,” he jerks Jaskier closer to him, “I can protect. But what if he destroys your river? I can’t protect an entire river, Jaskier. What if we goad him too far and he destroys you? The Voice said…” he trails off.

“What?” Jaskier asks softly, resting his forehead against Geralt’s own, clasping his hands around the back of the witcher’s neck and rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs.

“They said,” Geralt chokes out, voice struggling under the weight of all his emotions. “That it didn’t matter how many incarnations you went through. One day, the last drop of water in your river would run dry, and then you would truly know them.”

He catches Jaskier’s lips in a rough kiss, practically lifting him from the wall as he crushes the bard to him.

“I don’t want that ever to happen Jaskier! I  _ need _ to know that you’ll always be there. I know it’s selfish.”

“Not selfish,” Jaskier soothes, blinking back the tears that form in the wake of Geralt’s obvious distress. “But I think the Voice is wrong. If I fell off this wall and plummeted to my death, another Pankratz would take my place, and I’d be there, in the back of their mind just as my brother is for me. And should that one perish, then I’ll be there in the next one. And the one after that, and the one after that.

“Remember our song, Geralt,” he encourages.

The witcher lifts his head away from Jaskier’s to look at him quizzically, so Jaskier clears his throat and begins to sing.

__

_ ‘And if the river should ever run dry _

_ Somewhere the rain will still fall, will still fall from the sky. _

__

_ I cross my heart and I hope to live _

_ Just long enough that I can give it all to you. _

_ My Darling one, _

_ Rivers flow and rivers run. _

__

_ My Darling one, _

_ Rivers flow and rivers run.’ _

__

The stones around him echo his song, even as he trails off. Geralt looks at him in awe, as though Jaskier has shown him all the secrets of the universe.

“See,” Jaskier whispers, scared to break the spell he seems to have created. “In one form or another, I’ll be here for a very,  _ very _ long time.”

Geralt gives a small smile, but his attention seems to be caught by something over Jaskier’s shoulder. The River god turns, twisting himself down off the wall, but still staying firmly in his witcher’s arms, back to chest. 

The sun is about to rise, violet hints just peeking up from the horizon. Already Jaskier can tell it’s going to be a stunning one.

“I wrote you a song,” Geralt confides quietly, breath tickling his ear.

Jaskier tries to turn, utterly delighted, but Geralt squeezes him more tightly, preventing him from making eye contact. 

“Well, not entirely. The first verse is what I remember my mother singing to me. It’s about a little kingfisher singing down by the river.”

“That’s why you call me that!” Jaskier crows, pleased to have solved one ongoing mystery.

“Hmm,” Geralt huffs, but Jaskier can feel his lips curling upwards by his ear. “But I couldn’t remember any more, so Ciri talked me into writing my own version.”

“Sing it to me,” Jaskier begs. Pink is beginning to mingle with the violet and if Jaskier strains his eyes, he thinks he can just see the first hint of the brilliant orange that heralds the sun’s ascent.

Geralt coughs self-consciously, but he dutifully sings his song.

_ ‘Down by the river, among the rushes and reeds, _

_ Sings a Kingfisher, with a song just for me. _

_ With his handsome blue coat and his bright orange vest, _

_ He promises sunshine, good cheer and long rest. _

__

_ Down by the river, where I like to go, _

_ There came an old Wolf with a coat white as snow. _

_ He heard the Kingfisher sing his song full of love, _

_ And lay down beside him, as the sun shone above.’ _

__

“That’s what I want Jaskier,” Geralt admits once he’s finished. “I know we can’t have it now. But one day, when Nilfgaard has been dealt with and Ciri is safe, that’s what I want. I want to go back to your river, and I want to lie there next to you in the sun for the rest of our days.”

Jaskier presses himself firmly back into Geralt, wanting to dispel any gap between them. Wanting to meld into the witcher so he can make his home right next to Geralt’s heart. He grabs the hands Geralt has clasped in front of him with his own and squeezes fiercely.

“I want that too,” he says roughly, voice thick with love so strong he doesn’t think his body can fully contain it. “That sounds  _ perfect _ .”

Above them the sun finally breaks through, rising up and up, lighting all that lies in its path in a warm glow. One day they will feel that warmth as they lie on Jaskier’s banks, old men curled up together, but for now this will do. 

Geralt at his back and the promise of a brighter future before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! The end of the story! Not the end of the series, as I do plan to come back to it, but I'm afraid it's unlikely to be any time soon. Life is very busy at the moment and I've not had much time to write. 
> 
> Doesn't mean I don't have some things up my sleeve, before life threw me a curve ball I had already written the next part of [Oxenfurt Academicals](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645921) and [A Scottish Medley](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1736986), both just need some serious editing and a bit of reworking. So they should be up soon!


End file.
